For us Life's wheel runs backward. Other nests Are stripped of all their fledglings when our Fate Pitying may be, a childhood desolate, Brings home deferred,—unparted each one rests Beneath one roof. But the year's fitful span Brings change & growth & half displeased you say Musing upon the babes of yesterday: 'Behold, she is a woman; He a man.' Yet, spite of all, the childish wonder clings About our spirits when we hear him say— Our Father—'Children I was born to-day.' And we return to nursery wonderings Back comes the childish question to the tongue Father a child!—Was Father ever young?