[This is an old poem I found look through my notebooks. I was probably 13 when I wrote it.]
I advise you, child, no, entreat thee,
Go, take a book off your shelf,
And if your mother and the
Weather permit, burst outdoors,
And haul yourself into a tree,
Or fling yourself on the luscious
Green carpet of God's own
Design. Or lie amongst the
Flowers, wild and tame, and
Open your book. Open your
Book and find yourself on a boat,
A canoe or a pirate ship, in a
Cottage or a castle, riding a
Wild, bitless steed or a gentle
Riding horse. Laugh and be merry,
Cry and be sorrowful. And stay.
Stay in that land of magic
Which only few can create.
Stay until someone from this
World bids you come.
Stay and dream. Stay while
There is yet time.
For a day will come,
O torturous Day,
When that mind of yours shall
Be taken. Taken from your fun
And magic and dreams. Just a
Little at a time. If you complain
They say, "it shall get better" and
You believe it. They say it often
Enough that you believe it.
Then there is a threat.
"You have it easy now. Wait, you
Just wait."
Alack! Is it true? Will times
Get worse? They will! But
You don't believe it. "When I am
Through with lessons, through
For good, then it shall be
Easy going." Tut, tut, child. Not
So. It shall only get worse, worse,
And Death the worst. But then,
Oh, joyous article, when things are
Grave and sorrowful, it bids us turn
Our heads. Yes, then ye shall have
Eternity. Eternity with the ever-green
Grass, the never-fading blossoms,
The trees to climb, and, the
Best Storyteller of all.
YOU ARE READING
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