Child Think Not Of Poem by Nero CaroZiv

Child, think not of past days sadness and agony
Spare your grief, give it not a tear;
Sigh about the past gloom you may, but bid it go
Any place, any where, out of your mind clear


Look at the mirror, do not be so sad, the past is gone
Not to return, yet sad it was and its tracks not fading, still I hear your cry
But, if you must burst, then shed a drop, then-your agony is done
Oh! all hardships and crisis are born to die.


You are Still so pale child, then if you must, dearest, weep;
Weep! and I will  count and collect the tears;
And each one shall be a dear bliss over past sadness to keep
And for you to reflect back with happier mood on early years. 



Why lament, remember the nights where the Moon along the sky
Sailed in her heavenly path, in the deep blue vaults 
Of heaven, playing seek and hide among the clouds with mortal eye
Or dimly seen, but when the clouds asunder fly her charm never halts


Childhood under the vile hand was nevertheless sweet and sunny childhood,
Though with overbearing clouds of false rebuke and chide, yet with its careless, thoughtless air,
It flourished and bloomed like a tangled wildwood,
Which never got guidance and the faience of a training hand of care



Childhood contemplation of introvert soul; there was an enormous pleasure
In the pathless orchards and the gloom of woods beyond any possible measure
The touch of cold sand at dawn to the bare tiny feet
The dunes of endless sand hills that never bid ebb or retreat


The clear beautiful nights of summer
A wind blew out a floating cloud, gently with no hammer
For then the moon never beams to you without bringing dreams
Of sweet tales and worlds with sunshine beams



Spring time; when taken one day to the field a dandelion you had found
That tempted your hand with light and white feathery round
You were longing to finger it; you tiptoed near
And blew on it your mouth air until all plumelets did disappear


And all that in your hand was left of them
Was but the naked hairy shaft of a green stem
And sometimes from the cow-house the furious dogs
Incautious and over zeal would enter deep mossy bogs


Brave your day, brighter now are the eyes
Than a sunny summer green clad hill
And  your whispering thoughts and melodies
Are tenderer then ever still.


Yet, as all things mourn awhile
At fleeting blisses, in the teeth of crocodile
Let us seal the  mournful past 
Its horrible doings should be left to rust



Copy Right 2010
All Rights reserved