Daughter, let me play with you
Until you lay it down,
Your precious careless weightless delight
In grass soup and the crayon’s arc
In the flow of water and of sand
In running to run and jumping to jump.
Until you must take up, with me,
These ugly heavy useful things
That slow our joy
That dull the light
That kill delight
And make us old
Till we can age no further
And our burdens lay us down.
Daughter it will happen,
Though neither you nor me believe it.
But believe this with me also:
Something happens after that
To makes us play again
Both young as you, Both old as me
Both children with their father
In the land that does not die.