Children

Sometimes our welcome has no tongue; Children are often in the way. We tolerate them while they are young, And do not always share their play. We play our games and they play theirs. And when a dozen years have flown They have, we find, their own affairs And all their interests are their own. They are, we reason, in our debt, And wistfully we look for pay: They give us what we ask -- and yet We feel we are rather in the way. Our love, now fond, would manifest Itself in every act and word; But we are wont to veil it, lest We feel a little bit absurd. More fond we grow, and duteous; We only live for them, we say. They too would live -- but not for us; -- So runs this pleasant world away.