thery are the sons and daughter of lifes longing for itself.
They come though you but not from you
And though they are with you ,yet they belong not to you
You may give them your love but not your thoughts
Fof they have their own thoughts
You may house their badies but not their souls
For their souls dwell in the house of tommow which you can't visit not even in your dreams
You may strive to be like them but seek not to make them like you
For live goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday
You are the bows which your children as living arrows are sent forth
The archer sees the mark upon hte path of the infinte and bends you with
His mingt that his arrows mya go swift and far
Let your bending in the archer's hand be for gladness
For even as he loves the arrow that files so he loves aslo the bow that is stable.
They come though you but not from you
And though they are with you ,yet they belong not to you
You may give them your love but not your thoughts
Fof they have their own thoughts
You may house their badies but not their souls
For their souls dwell in the house of tommow which you can't visit not even in your dreams
You may strive to be like them but seek not to make them like you
For live goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday
You are the bows which your children as living arrows are sent forth
The archer sees the mark upon hte path of the infinte and bends you with
His mingt that his arrows mya go swift and far
Let your bending in the archer's hand be for gladness
For even as he loves the arrow that files so he loves aslo the bow that is stable.