Their love, beauty and innocence,
Can touch your heart, your soul.
Eyes shining, they watch your every move.
Waiting for your smile,
Your arms to warm and comfort them.
It's the little things they love the most.
Bright colours, shinny beads, a funny face.
Like fine connoisseurs they watch,
And with a spooky sense of knowing,
In moment they can dismiss you,
Or choose you, to be their special one.
Their time so limited,
Soon the grip of adulthood will rob them of their
Play and spontaneity.
Then, they will have to learn to play a different game.
The game called life.
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Comments about this poem (Little children by Elaine Battersby )
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
Ella Wheeler Wilcox
(5 November 1850 - 30 October 1919)
(August 19, 1902 – May 19, 1971)
(20 October 1854 – 10 November 1891)
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