Fragments: Iv. Poem by Richard Chenebix Trench

The business of the world is child's play mere;
Too many, ah! the children playing here:
Their pleasure and their woe, their loss and gain,
Alike mean nothing, and alike are vain;
As children's, who, to pass the time away,
Build up their booths, and buy and sell in play;
But homeward hungering must at eve repair,
And standing leave their booths with all their ware:
So the world's children, when their night is come,
With empty satchels turn them sadly home.