Daughter
My laughing girl who lives the game of love.
My child who orders play, whose diverse plans
Divert me from my work. What work's above
Such ploy and play, such joy and pleasure grand?
All travail pales before such pleasing, no toil
Can beckon better than this childish easing.
Why did I struggle so to bring ambition's birth
When all my daughter's aim is to make mirth?
If ever man has aimed for aught he must
Remember - all but childish love is dust.
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