Thou art home at last, my darling one, <br />Flushed and tired with thy play, <br />From morning dawn until setting sun <br />Hast thou been at sport away; <br />And thy steps are weary—hot thy brow, <br />Yet thine eyes with joy are bright,— <br />Ah! I read the riddle, show me now <br />The treasures thou graspest tight. <br /> <br />A pretty pebble, a tiny shell, <br />A feather by wild bird cast, <br />Gay flowers gathered in forest dell, <br />Already withering fast, <br />Four speckled eggs in a soft brown nest, <br />Thy last and thy greatest prize, <br />Such the things that fill with joy thy breast, <br />With laughing light thine eyes. <br /> <br />Ah! my child, what right have I to smile <br />And whisper, too dearly bought, <br />By wand’ring many a weary mile— <br />Dust, heat, and toilsome thought? <br />For we, the children of riper years, <br />Task aching heart and brain, <br />Waste yearning hopes and anxious fears <br />On baubles just as vain. <br /> <br />For empty title, ribbon or star, <br />For worshipped and much-sought gold, <br />How men will struggle at home—afar— <br />And suffer toils untold; <br />Plodding their narrow and earth-bound way <br />Amid restless care and strife, <br />Wasting not merely a fleeting day, <br />But the precious years of life. <br /> <br />And thou, fair child, with to-morrow’s dawn <br />Wilt rise up calm and glad, <br />To cull wild flowers ’mid wood and lawn, <br />Untroubled by memory sad; <br />But, alas! the worldly-wise of earth, <br />When life’s last bonds are riven, <br />Will find that for things of meanest worth <br />They’ve lost both Life and Heaven.<br /><br />Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-child-s-treasures/
