The Man and the Child
by ANNE MORROW LINDBERGH
IT IS the man in us who works;
Who earns his daily bread and anxious scans
The evening skies to know tomorrow s plans;
It is the man who hurries as he walks;
Finds courage in a crowd; shouts as he talks;
Who shuts his eyes and burrows through his task;
Who doubts his neighbor and who wears a mask;
Who moves in armor and who hides his tears.
It is the man in us who fears.
The evening skies to know tomorrow s plans;
It is the man who hurries as he walks;
Finds courage in a crowd; shouts as he talks;
Who shuts his eyes and burrows through his task;
Who doubts his neighbor and who wears a mask;
Who moves in armor and who hides his tears.
It is the man in us who fears.
It is the child in us who plays;
Who sees no happiness beyond todays;
Who sings for joy; who wonders, and who weeps;
It is the child in ns at night who sleeps.
It is the child who silent turns his lace,
Open and maskless, naked of defense,
Simple with trust, distilled of all pretense,
To sudden beauly in another s face —
Who sees no happiness beyond todays;
Who sings for joy; who wonders, and who weeps;
It is the child in ns at night who sleeps.
It is the child who silent turns his lace,
Open and maskless, naked of defense,
Simple with trust, distilled of all pretense,
To sudden beauly in another s face —
It is the child in us who loves.