By William Blake*
WHEN the voices of children are heard on the green,
And laughing is heard on the hill,
My heart is at rest within my breast,
And everything else is still.
“Then come home, my children, the sun is gone down,
And the dews of the night arise;
Come, come, leave off play, and let us away
Till the morning appears in the skies.”
“No, no, let us play, for it is yet day,
And we cannot go to sleep;
Besides in the sky the little birds fly,
And the hills are all covered with sheep.”
“Well, well, go and play till the light fades away, And then go home to bed.”
The little ones leaped, and shouted, and laughed, And all the hills echoed.
*Early writers for children all thought thev must preach; but the poet, William Blake, in a flash of pure genius wrote Songs of Innocence in 1789, full of the joyous spirit of childhood and with no thought of preaching.
“THE BOOK HOUSE for CHILDREN”