A Childs Thanks

How low soeer men rank us,     How high soeer we win,     The children far above us     Dwell, and they deign to love us,     With lovelier love than ours,     And smiles more sweet than flowers;     As though the sun should thank us     For letting light come in.     With too divine complaisance,     Whose grace misleads them thus,     Being gods, in heavenly blindness     They call our worship kindness,     Our pebble-gift a gem:     They think us good to them,     Whose glance, whose breath, whose presence,     Are gifts too good for us.     The poet high and hoary     Of meres that mountains bind     Felt his great heart more often     Yearn, and its proud strength soften     From stern to tenderer mood,     At thought of gratitude     Shown than of song or story     He heard of hearts unkind.     But with what words for token     And what adoring tears     Of reverence risen to passion,     In what glad prostrate fashion     Of spirit and soul subdued,     May man show gratitude     For thanks of children spoken     That hover in his ears?     The angels laugh, your brothers,     Child, hearing you thank me,     With eyes whence night grows sunny,     And touch of lips like honey,     And words like honey-dew:     But how shall I thank you?     For gifts above all others     What guerdon-gift may be?     What wealth of words caressing,     What choice of songs found best,     Would seem not as derision,     Found vain beside the vision     And glory from above     Shown in a childs hearts love?     His part in life is blessing;     Ours, only to be blest.