And yet I would not be a child again.For surely as the night succeeds the day,So surely will their mirth turn into tears.And I would not return to happy hours,If I must live again these weary years.I would walk on, and leave it all behind:will walk on; and when my feet grow sore,The boatman waits—his sails are all unfurled—He waits to row me to a fairer shore.
-Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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