I see a little child whose eager hands

Search the thick stream that drains the crowded street

For possible things hid in its current slow.

Near by, behind him, a great palace stands,

Where kings might welcome nobles to their feet.

Soft sounds, sweet scents, fair sights there only go –

There the child’s father lives, but the child does not know.

On, eager, hungry, busy-seeking child,

Rise up, turn round, run in, run up the stair.

Far in a chamber from rude noise exiled,

Thy father sits, pondering how thou dost fare.

The mighty man will clasp thee to his breast:

Will kiss thee, stroke the tangles of thy hair, 

And lap thee warm in fold on fold of lovely rest.

George MacDonald, The Diary of an Old Soul