I said, and I say again, no day can be so sacred but that the laugh of
a child will make the holiest day more sacred still. Strike with hand
of fire, oh, weird musician, thy harp, strung with Apollo's golden
hair; fill the vast cathedral aisles with symphonies sweet and dim, deft
toucher of the organ keys; blow, bugler, blow, until thy silver notes do
touch the skies, with moonlit waves, and charm the lovers wandering on
the vine-clad hills: but know, your sweetest strains are discords all,
compared with childhood's happy laugh, the laugh that fills the eyes
with light and every heart with joy; oh, rippling river of life, thou
art the blessed boundary-line between the beasts and man, and every
wayward wave of thine doth drown some fiend of care; oh, laughter,
divine daughter of joy, make dimples enough in the cheeks of the world
to catch and hold and glorify all the tears of grief.