Copyright © 2004 by Paul Howarth
All Rights Reserved

Come to me, O ye children!
For I hear you at your play,
And the questions that perplexed me
Have vanished quite away;

Ye open the eastern windows
That look towards the sun,
Where thoughts are singing swallows,
And the brooks of morning run.

In your hearts are the birds and sunshine,
In your thoughts the brooklets flow,
But in mine is the wind of Autumn
And the first fall of snow.

Come to me,
O ye children come to me.

Ah! what would the world be to us
If the children were no more?
We should dread the desert behind us
Worse than the dark before;

What the leaves are to the forest
With light and air for food,
Ere their sweet and tender juices
Have been harden'd into wood.

That to the world are children,
Thro' them it feels the glow
Of a brighter and sunnier climate
Than reaches the trunks below.

Come to me, O ye children!
And whisper in my ear
What the birds and the winds are singing
In your sunny atmosphere.

For what are all our contrivings,
And the wisdom of our books,
When compar'd with your caresses
And the gladness of your looks?

Ye are better than all the ballads
That ever were sung or said;
For ye are living poems,
And all the rest are dead,

Ye are better than all the ballads
That ever were sung or said;
For ye are living poems,
And all the rest are dead.

Come to me, O ye children,
Come, O ye children, come to me!

By Arthur Sullivan
Generated by NoteWorthy Composer

Living Poems
Lyrics
Vocal
Right Hand
Left Hand