Above the hills, along the blue, Round the bright air, with footing true, To please the child, to paint the rose, The Gardener of the World, he goes. _Robert Louis Stevenson_
Children, aye, forsooth, They bring their own love with them when they come. _Jean Ingelow_
We came upon A wildfowl sitting on her nest, so still I reached my hand and touched her: she did not stir; The snow had frozen round her, and she sat, Stone-dead, upon a heap of ice-cold eggs, Look, how this love, this mother, runs through all The world God made--even the beast, the bird! _Tennyson_
In your hearts are the birds and sunshine, In your thoughts, the brooklet's flow. _Longfellow_
No flower bells that expand and shrink Gleam half so heavenly sweet, As shine, on life's untrodden brink, A baby's feet. _Swinburne_
St. Augustine said finely: "A marriage without children is the world without the sun." _Luther_
The child, the seed, the grain of corn, The acorn on the hill, Each for some separate end is born In season fit, and still Each must in strength arise to work the Almighty will. _Robert Louis Stevenson_
As children play, without to-morrow, Without Yesterday. _Agnes Robinson_
Shall those smiles be called Feelers of love, put forth as if to explore This untried world? _Wordsworth_
When children are playing alone on the green, In comes the playmate that never was seen. _Robert Louis Stevenson_
Respect childhood and do not hastily judge of it, either for good or evil. _Rosseau_
What does little baby say, In her bed at peep of day? Baby says, like little birdie, Let me rise and fly away.
Baby sleep a little longer, Till the little limbs are stronger, If she sleeps a little longer Baby too, shall fly away. _Tennyson_
"Mother," asked a child, "since nothing is ever lost, where do all our thoughts go?"
"To God," answered the mother, "who remembers them forever."
"Forever!" said the child. He bent his head and, drawing closer to his mother, murmured, "I am frightened!"
Which of us has not felt the same? _Selected_
Happy little children, seek your shady places, Lark songs in their bosoms, sunshine in their faces. _Lucy Larcom_
The mother, with anticipated glee, Smiles o'er the child, that, standing by her chair, And flattening its round cheek upon her knee, Looks up and doth its rosy lips prepare To mock the coming sounds: at the sweet sight She hears her own voice with new delight. _S. T. Coleridge_