March Poetry -- Nature by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
As a fond mother, when the day is o'er,Leads by the hand her little child to bed,Half willing, half reluctant to be led, And leave his broken playthings on the floor,Still gazing at them through the open door, Nor wholly reassured and comfortedBy promises of others in their stead,Which though more splendid, may not please him more;So Nature deals with us, and takes awayOur playthings one by one, and by the handLeads us to rest so gently, that we goScarce knowing if we wish to go or stay,Being too full of sleep to understand How far the unknown transcends the what we know.
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