WE cannot know the child's deep heart,
We cannot learn his grief;
Though childhood still is dear to man,
And the spent time so brief.

Who knew the hours of silent joy
In our green garden plot,
Those mornings with the hollyhocks,
Whose beauty fadeth not! --

Days when the hidden steps of spring
Were heard, not understood;
When music from afar swept in,
Born of her dreamful mood, --

Seasons when young Love hid his face
Through joyless, restless days;
The winter of the growing soul,
When summer but delays.

Who knew how sad the darksome path,
The hour of grief how long!
Nor how there came the strong bright day,
And through the mist a song.