Myths of golden ages magnify
To cosmic scale each manís experience.
Childhood like a magic castle lifts
Its drawbridge on our heels, and sends us forth
With such aftertaste of bliss that all of life
Is spent seeking that lost paradise.
Children have a world within our world:
A microcosm busy and secure
As bees in the cushioned fastnesses of flowers.
Days are their coinage: weeks, months, years
Mean nothing more than do the sunís dimensions.
Summer meadows are their forests; trees
Make caves for them, and leaves to flounder through,
While high boughs could be painted on the sky.
Butterflies alight at nose-tip level;
Pimpernel half-hidden in the grass
Is more a treat than daffodil or rose.
But would we change our power for their peace?
Do frogs regret the shedding of a tail?
Perhaps we polish over-much the past:
Like antique furniture it gains a shine
When use has worn the texture all away.
by Damaris West
Read the story behind this poem
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