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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=335758" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Childhood is the Kingdom Where Nobody Dies</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=335758" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">Childhood is not from birth to a certain age and at a certain age<br>The child is grown, and puts away childish things.<br>Childhood is the kingdom where nobody dies.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=335758" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">Nobody that matters, that is. Distant relatives of course<br>Die, whom one never has seen or has seen for an hour,<br>And they gave one candy in a pink-and-green stripéd bag, or a jack-knife,<br>And went away, and cannot really be said to have lived at all.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=335758" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">And cats die. They lie on the floor and lash their tails,<br>And their reticent fur is suddenly all in motion<br>With fleas that one never knew were there,<br>Polished and brown, knowing all there is to know,<br>Trekking off into the living world.<br>You fetch a shoe-box, but it’s much too small, because she won’t curl up now:<br>So you find a bigger box, and bury her in the yard, and weep.<br>But you do not wake up a month from then, two months<br>A year from then, two years, in the middle of the night<br>And weep, with your knuckles in your mouth, and say Oh, God! Oh, God!<br>Childhood is the kingdom where nobody dies that matters,<br>—mothers and fathers don’t die.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=335758" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">And if you have said, “For heaven’s sake, must you always be kissing a person?”<br>Or, “I do wish to gracious you’d stop tapping on the window with your thimble!”<br>Tomorrow, or even the day after tomorrow if you’re busy having fun,<br>Is plenty of time to say, “I’m sorry, mother.”</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=335758" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">To be grown up is to sit at the table with people who have died,<br>who neither listen nor speak;<br>Who do not drink their tea, though they always said<br>Tea was such a comfort.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=335758" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">Run down into the cellar and bring up the last jar of raspberries;<br>they are not tempted.<br>Flatter them, ask them what was it they said exactly<br>That time, to the bishop, or to the overseer, or to Mrs. Mason;<br>They are not taken in.<br>Shout at them, get red in the face, rise,<br>Drag them up out of their chairs by their stiff shoulders and shake<br>them and yell at them;<br>They are not startled, they are not even embarrassed; they slide<br>back into their chairs.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=335758" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">Your tea is cold now.<br>You drink it standing up,<br>And leave the house.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><a href="http://poems.citatepedia.com/">poem</a> by <strong><a rel="author" href="http://authors.citatepedia.com/by.php?a=Edna+St.+Vincent+Millay">Edna St. Vincent Millay</a></strong></div>