Childhood

So, like a forgotten fire, a childhood can always flare up again within us.

The man who does not play has lost forever the child who lived in him, and he will certainly miss him.

Never such innocence again.

I was a child and she was a child, In this kingdom by the sea, But we loved with a love that was more than love— I and my Annabel Lee— With a love that the wingèd seraphs of Heaven Coveted her and me.

But childhood, prolonged, cannot remain a fairyland. It becomes a hell.

To joyously savor one single instant of initial life I seek an innocent country 1

Childhood is the world of miracle and wonder; as if creation rose, bathed in light out of the darkness, utterly new and fresh and astonishing. The end of childhood is when things cease to astonish us.

Oh! the old swimmin’ hole! When I last saw the place, The scenes was all changed, like the change in my face.

A simple child, dear brother Jim,

Behold the child, by Nature’s kindly law, Pleas’d with a rattle, tickled with a straw: Some livelier plaything gives his youth delight, A little louder, but as empty quite: Scarfs, garters, gold, amuse his riper stage, And beads and prayer books are the toys of age! Pleas’d with this bauble still, as that before; Till tir’d he sleeps, and life’s poor play is o’er.

Old men are children for a second time.

Maud went to college. Sadie stayed at home. Sadie scraped life With a fine-tooth comb.

I was a child and she was a child,

I can never remember whether it snowed for six days and six nights when I was twelve or whether it snowed for twelve days and twelve nights when I was six.

As yet a child, nor yet a fool to fame, I lisp’d in numbers, for the numbers came.

We wove a web in childhood, A web of sunny air.

An’ all us other children, when the supper things is done, We set around the kitchen fire an’ has the mostest fun A-list’nin’ to the witch-tales ’at Annie tells about, An’ the Gobble-uns ’at gits you Ef you Watch Out!

Glimmering stars of the Great Bear, I never thought I’d be back to see you Shining down on my father’s garden, Nor talk to you ever again from the windows Of this house where I spent my childhood And saw the last of my happiness vanish.

Stands the Church clock at ten to three?

A soiled baby, with a neglected nose, cannot be conscientiously regarded as a thing of beauty; and inasmuch as babyhood spans but three short years, no baby is competent to be a joy “forever.”

I wonder by my troth, what thou, and I Did, till we lov’d? were we not wean’d till then But suck’d on country pleasures, childishly? Or snorted we in the seven sleepers’ den?

Child! do not throw this book about; Refrain from the unholy pleasure Of cutting all the pictures out! Preserve it as your chiefest treasure.

Childhood Is the Kingdom Where Nobody Dies

As yet a child, nor yet a fool to fame,