The Poet’s Love For The Children by James Whitcomb Riley

Kindly and warm and tender,
He nestled each childish palm
So close in his own that his touch was a prayer
And his speech a blessed psalm.

He has turned from the marvelous pages
Of many an alien tome–
Haply come down from Olivet,
Or out from the gates of Rome–

Set sail o’er the seas between him
And each little beckoning hand
That fluttered about in the meadows
And groves of his native land,–

Fluttered and flashed on his vision
As, in the glimmering light
Of the orchard-lands of childhood,
The blossoms of pink and white.

And there have been sobs in his bosom,
As out on the shores he stept,
And many a little welcomer
Has wondered why he wept.–

That was because, O children,
Ye might not always be
The same that the Savior’s arms were wound
About, in Galilee.

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