Nature

by


    As a fond mother, when the day is o'er,
        Leads by the hand her little child to bed,
        Half willing, half reluctant to be led,
        And leave his broken playthings on the floor,
    Still gazing at them through the open door,
        Nor wholly reassured and comforted
        By promises of others in their stead,
        Which, though more splendid, may not please him more;
    So Nature deals with us, and takes away
        Our playthings one by one, and by the hand
        Leads us to rest so gently, that we go
    Scarce knowing if we wish to go or stay,
        Being too full of sleep to understand
        How far the unknown transcends the what we know.

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Return to the Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Home Page, or . . . Read the next poem; Night

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