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.