by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807 - 1882)
Translation by Miguel Antonio Caro (1845 - 1909)

Come to me, O ye children!
Language: English 
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 the sunshine,
In your thoughts the brooklet`s flow,
But in mine is the wind of Autumn
And the first fall of the snow.

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 hardened into wood, -

That to the world are children;
Through 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 compared 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. 

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Authorship

Musical settings (art songs, Lieder, mélodies, (etc.), choral pieces, and other vocal works set to this text), listed by composer (not necessarily exhaustive)

Available translations, adaptations or excerpts, and transliterations (if applicable):


Researcher for this text: Emily Ezust [Administrator]

This text was added to the website: 2005-03-17
Line count: 36
Word count: 218

Los niños
Language: Spanish (Español)  after the English 
Venid, buenos amiguitos ;
Cuando escucho vuestros gritos,
Cuando miro vuestro juego,
Mis pesares huyen luego.

Pues me abrís gentil ventana,
Y á la luz de la mañana
Miro el agua cristalina
Y la inquieta golondrina.

Vuestras almas inocentes
Tienen pájaros y fuentes ;
Vuestros libres pensamientos
Son cual ondas, son cual vientos.

En vosotros todo es canto,
Todo es luz; gozad, entanto
Que mi helado invierno empieza;
Ya es de nieve mi cabeza.

Sin vosotros, pequeñuelos
Mensajeros de los cielos,
¿Cuán estéril, cuán sombría
La existencia no sería?

Sois cual hojas que al anciano
Bosque dan verdor lozano,
Y en los aires se remecen,
Beben luz, y resplandecen.

Venid, niños bendecidos;
Quedo, quedo en mis oídos
Susurrad lo que süaves
Os contaron brisas y aves.
 
Vuestra atmósfera supera
A la misma primavera
De los campos, con sus flores
Y sus blandos ruiseñores.

Con vosotros comparadas
Poco valen las baladas,
Las poéticas leyendas,
Las ficciones estupendas.

Que la historia es sombra incierta,
Y los libros letra muerta ;
Vuestra candida alegría
Es viviente poesía.

Authorship

Based on

Musical settings (art songs, Lieder, mélodies, (etc.), choral pieces, and other vocal works set to this text), listed by composer (not necessarily exhaustive)

    [ None yet in the database ]


Researcher for this text: Andrew Schneider [Guest Editor]

This text was added to the website: 2019-11-27
Line count: 40
Word count: 175