Poems (Greenwell)/Childhood
For works with similar titles, see Childhood.
CHILDHOOD.
Once in a garden bounded
By many a lofty wall,
Where quaint old sentinels, in stone.
Kept watch and ward o'er all,
But opening southwards, shaded
By trees that swept the ground,
And kept the turf unfaded
And green, the summer round,
There was a little lake, and there
An island, and a boat
That lay 'mid shining water-flags
And lily-leaves afloat;
Smooth as the swards around them dipt,
Swept only by the wing
Of gauzy dragon-fly, that dipt
In many a mazy ring,
"Were those still waters; all unstirred
The rose's leaf would lie.
Blown there by summer winds; the bird
Skim, lightly glancing by.
This was the Haunt of childhood;
Once there I seemed to grow
Among the flowers, and with the fruits
To change and ripen slow;
I watched them through all changes, there
Upon the grass I lay
Snowed over by the blossoms light
That fell so thick in May;
I saw the currant strips that hung
Transparent on the stems
They clothed as in the Eastern tale
With many coloured gems;
I watched the peach's sunny cheek
Turn slowly on the wall,
And with no guess at Nature's laws
Saw many an apple fall;
Gold-tinted, rosy-tinged, their hues
Were mine, and I as they;
The purple bloom was on my life,
The down unbrushed away;
My world was then like His that first
A happy garden knew,
Unworn, and fresh, and glistening bright
With shining spheres of dew;
My soul was full of light that passed
As through a tinctured pane
In warm and vermeil hues, and cast
On all its gorgeous stain;
The dial on its grassy mound
That silent marked the hours,
(Time's footfall then awoke no sound,
That only trod on flowers),
The sun-flowers and the moon-flowers
(These were lilies white and tall),
The ancient griffins that looked down
Upon me from the wall!
These were for tokens unto me
And signs, they seemed to pass
Into my life as then I lay
At noon-day on the grass,
And twined a wondrous history
Slow twisting, branch and stem,
My garlands binding all the while
My Being up with them;
And I knew that in the wild-wood
'Mid the meadows, on the hill
Were flowers, but unto childhood
The best were nearest still;
And I sometimes thought "out yonder
I will seek for blossoms too,"
But turned again the fonder
To those that round me grew;
Still have I flowers around me—
But some that grow so high
I cannot reach unto them,
And they drop not till they die;
Still I have flowers around me—
But some that lie so low
I cannot stoop to pluck them,
They must wither where they grow;
Still have I flowers to eye more fair,
More dear unto the heart
Than those, but scattered here and there
They bloom, and far apart;
I scarce know where to find them,
I can never hope again
Within one knot to bind them,
As I did so often then.
Soon told were childhood's treasures—
The childish world was small,
But its wonders and its pleasures
Were its own—it held them all!
By many a lofty wall,
Where quaint old sentinels, in stone.
Kept watch and ward o'er all,
But opening southwards, shaded
By trees that swept the ground,
And kept the turf unfaded
And green, the summer round,
There was a little lake, and there
An island, and a boat
That lay 'mid shining water-flags
And lily-leaves afloat;
Smooth as the swards around them dipt,
Swept only by the wing
Of gauzy dragon-fly, that dipt
In many a mazy ring,
"Were those still waters; all unstirred
The rose's leaf would lie.
Blown there by summer winds; the bird
Skim, lightly glancing by.
This was the Haunt of childhood;
Once there I seemed to grow
Among the flowers, and with the fruits
To change and ripen slow;
I watched them through all changes, there
Upon the grass I lay
Snowed over by the blossoms light
That fell so thick in May;
I saw the currant strips that hung
Transparent on the stems
They clothed as in the Eastern tale
With many coloured gems;
I watched the peach's sunny cheek
Turn slowly on the wall,
And with no guess at Nature's laws
Saw many an apple fall;
Gold-tinted, rosy-tinged, their hues
Were mine, and I as they;
The purple bloom was on my life,
The down unbrushed away;
My world was then like His that first
A happy garden knew,
Unworn, and fresh, and glistening bright
With shining spheres of dew;
My soul was full of light that passed
As through a tinctured pane
In warm and vermeil hues, and cast
On all its gorgeous stain;
The dial on its grassy mound
That silent marked the hours,
(Time's footfall then awoke no sound,
That only trod on flowers),
The sun-flowers and the moon-flowers
(These were lilies white and tall),
The ancient griffins that looked down
Upon me from the wall!
These were for tokens unto me
And signs, they seemed to pass
Into my life as then I lay
At noon-day on the grass,
And twined a wondrous history
Slow twisting, branch and stem,
My garlands binding all the while
My Being up with them;
And I knew that in the wild-wood
'Mid the meadows, on the hill
Were flowers, but unto childhood
The best were nearest still;
And I sometimes thought "out yonder
I will seek for blossoms too,"
But turned again the fonder
To those that round me grew;
Still have I flowers around me—
But some that grow so high
I cannot reach unto them,
And they drop not till they die;
Still I have flowers around me—
But some that lie so low
I cannot stoop to pluck them,
They must wither where they grow;
Still have I flowers to eye more fair,
More dear unto the heart
Than those, but scattered here and there
They bloom, and far apart;
I scarce know where to find them,
I can never hope again
Within one knot to bind them,
As I did so often then.
Soon told were childhood's treasures—
The childish world was small,
But its wonders and its pleasures
Were its own—it held them all!
Once, in a mansion, looking
Upon that garden fair.
Was a wide and pleasant parlour.
And an eastward bedroom; there
As on my little bed I lay
Before my half-shut eyes
Danced dreams of pleasure, that the morn
Was sure to realize;
When the sun knocked at my window,
And to give him entrance free
I sprung, because he never came
Without some gift for me!
Still night brings visions round my bed
As sweet but not so true.
And still the morning comes with gifts,
But now they are not new;
So I cry not now "To-morrow's come!"
My spirit, less elate,
For all that it may bring to me
Full patiently can wait.
My Evening and my Morning then
Made up one perfect Day
Of joy, and round the parlour fire
My winter garden lay;
I played beside it till I saw
The deepening shadows fall,
And through the twilight come and go
The pictures on the wall,
This was the hour for stories
And wondrous tales, that drew
My spirit after them to lands
Where all was strange and new;
And I listened, and I wondered,
Then hastened to resume
My journey (broken oft by falls
That harmed not) round the room;
I have now of longer journeys
O'er rougher roads, to tell,
And sorer hurts, without the kiss
That used to make them well!
This was the Home of childhood;
As in a Fairy Ring
Within the circle of its hearth
Was drawn each cherished thing;
I sent no restless thought beyond,
I looked not to the door,
If the whole world had entered there
It could not give me more
Than those that sat around it—all
I knew of good and wise,
Spoke for me then upon their lips,
And lived within their eyes;
I had no Future then, no Past,
My life was unto me
But one bright Now—the happiness
That has no History!
Still hath my heart a hearth, but now
Its circle is so wide
That those it burns for, never meet
Around it side by side;
They are severed, they are scattered,
And now the twilight's fall
Too often only comes to me
With shadows on the wall;
Soon filled with childhood's measure,
The childish heart was small,
Yet they that made its treasure
Were its own—it held them all!
Upon that garden fair.
Was a wide and pleasant parlour.
And an eastward bedroom; there
As on my little bed I lay
Before my half-shut eyes
Danced dreams of pleasure, that the morn
Was sure to realize;
When the sun knocked at my window,
And to give him entrance free
I sprung, because he never came
Without some gift for me!
Still night brings visions round my bed
As sweet but not so true.
And still the morning comes with gifts,
But now they are not new;
So I cry not now "To-morrow's come!"
My spirit, less elate,
For all that it may bring to me
Full patiently can wait.
My Evening and my Morning then
Made up one perfect Day
Of joy, and round the parlour fire
My winter garden lay;
I played beside it till I saw
The deepening shadows fall,
And through the twilight come and go
The pictures on the wall,
This was the hour for stories
And wondrous tales, that drew
My spirit after them to lands
Where all was strange and new;
And I listened, and I wondered,
Then hastened to resume
My journey (broken oft by falls
That harmed not) round the room;
I have now of longer journeys
O'er rougher roads, to tell,
And sorer hurts, without the kiss
That used to make them well!
This was the Home of childhood;
As in a Fairy Ring
Within the circle of its hearth
Was drawn each cherished thing;
I sent no restless thought beyond,
I looked not to the door,
If the whole world had entered there
It could not give me more
Than those that sat around it—all
I knew of good and wise,
Spoke for me then upon their lips,
And lived within their eyes;
I had no Future then, no Past,
My life was unto me
But one bright Now—the happiness
That has no History!
Still hath my heart a hearth, but now
Its circle is so wide
That those it burns for, never meet
Around it side by side;
They are severed, they are scattered,
And now the twilight's fall
Too often only comes to me
With shadows on the wall;
Soon filled with childhood's measure,
The childish heart was small,
Yet they that made its treasure
Were its own—it held them all!
Now is that hearth deserted,
So warm and bright of yore,
And that pleasant garden—through its paths
I shall never wander more;
It is closed to me as surely
As if, to bar my way,
The Flaming Sword before its gate
Were turning night and day;
Yet I would not therefore sever
My spirit from the light,
But strive to widen ever
Its circle of delight;
For all things from it taken,
And all it seeks in vain,
Together prest and shaken
Shall fill it yet again;
For each dim and shadowy token,
Each hint to childhood given,
Each promise Earth hath broken
Shall yet be kept in Heaven,
When joy and peace long-parted
Meet in an endless kiss,
And perfect Love is joined at last
To pure and perfect bliss!
For the great and gracious Giver,
Till He spread both hands to bless
The cup that ever floweth o'er,
And never holdeth less,
With the blessing without sorrow,
With the long and perfect Day
Of light, that hath no morrow
To take its joy away,
Lets not the heaped-up measure
Within the bosom fall;
Keeps back its richest treasure
Until He gives it all!
So warm and bright of yore,
And that pleasant garden—through its paths
I shall never wander more;
It is closed to me as surely
As if, to bar my way,
The Flaming Sword before its gate
Were turning night and day;
Yet I would not therefore sever
My spirit from the light,
But strive to widen ever
Its circle of delight;
For all things from it taken,
And all it seeks in vain,
Together prest and shaken
Shall fill it yet again;
For each dim and shadowy token,
Each hint to childhood given,
Each promise Earth hath broken
Shall yet be kept in Heaven,
When joy and peace long-parted
Meet in an endless kiss,
And perfect Love is joined at last
To pure and perfect bliss!
For the great and gracious Giver,
Till He spread both hands to bless
The cup that ever floweth o'er,
And never holdeth less,
With the blessing without sorrow,
With the long and perfect Day
Of light, that hath no morrow
To take its joy away,
Lets not the heaped-up measure
Within the bosom fall;
Keeps back its richest treasure
Until He gives it all!