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The Boy

 Go, little boy, 
Fill thee with joy; 
For Time gives thee 
Unlicensed hours, 
To run in fields, 
And roll in flowers.
A little boy Can life enjoy; If but to see The horses pass, When shut indoors Behind the glass.
Go, little boy, Fill thee with joy; Fear not, like man, The kick of wrath, That you do lie In some one's path.
Time is to thee Eternity, As to a bird Or butterfly; And in that faith True joy doth lie.

by William Henry Davies
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