Children’s Day, a celebration that resonates with joy and innocence, coincides with the birthday of Jawaharlal Nehru, the first Prime Minister of India. This day, observed on November 14th, is not merely a commemoration of a political figure but a tribute to the charismatic leader’s deep affection for children. Nehru, fondly called Chacha Nehru, believed in nurturing the potential of the younger generation, envisioning a future shaped by their dreams and aspirations.As we celebrate Children’s Day today, let’s explore five delightful poems that transcend age, captivating the hearts of children and evoking nostalgic smiles in adults.
Childhood
by Rainer Maria Rilke
It would be good to give much thought, before
you try to find words for something so lost,
for those long childhood afternoons you knew
that vanished so completely -and why?
We’re still reminded-: sometimes by a rain,
but we can no longer say what it means;
life was never again so filled with meeting,
with reunion and with passing on
as back then, when nothing happened to us
except what happens to things and creatures:
we lived their world as something human,
and became filled to the brim with figures.
And became as lonely as a shepherd
and as overburdened by vast distances,
and summoned and stirred as from far away,
and slowly, like a long new thread,
introduced into that picture-sequence
where now having to go on bewilders us.
Picture Of Childhood
by Yevgeny Yevtushenko
Elbowing our way, we run.
Someone is being beaten up in the market.
You wouldn’t want to miss it!
We pick up speed, racing to the uproar,
scooping up water in our felt boots
and forgetting to wipe our sniffles.
And stood stock-still. In our little hearts something tightened,
when we saw how the ring of sheepskin coats,
fur coats, hooded coats, was contracting,
how he stood up near the green vegetable stall
with his head pulled into his shoulders from the hail
of jabs, kicks, spitting, slaps in the face.
Childhood Memories
by Paul L. Kennedy
I was happy when I was a lad.
It wasn’t all good, but it wasn’t half bad.
We played with sticks we played with stones;
we built ourselves dens that we called homes.
We explored the woods, we climbed the trees,
and we played with marbles on our knees.
Conkers in season we threaded with string.
If your opponent missed, your knuckles would sting.
We built trolleys with old pram wheels.
We were often too busy to go home for our meals.
We made catapults, bows and arrows and spears,
quite often resulting in painful tears.
About My Dreams
by Hilda Conkling
Now the flowers are all folded,
And the dark is going by.
The evening is arising …
It is time to rest.
When I am sleeping I find my pillow full of dreams.
They are all new dreams:
No one told them to me
Before I came through the cloud.
They remember the sky, my little dreams,
They have wings, they are quick, they are sweet.
Help me tell my dreams
To the other children,
So that their bread may taste whiter,
So that the milk they drink
May make them think of meadows
In the sky of stars.
Help me give bread to the other children
So that their dreams may come back:
So they will remember what they knew
Before they came through the cloud.
Let me hold their little hands in the dark,
The lonely children,
The babies that have no mothers any more.
Dear God, let me hold up my silver cup
For them to drink,
And tell them the sweetness
Of my dreams.
What Can We Give Our Children
by Ruskin Bond
What can we give our children?
Knowledge, yes, and honour too,
And strength of character
And the gift of laughter.
What gold do we give our children?
The gold of a sunny childhood,
Open spaces, a home that binds
Us to the common good…
These simple things
Are greater than the gold of kings.
Watch Pandit Nehru birth anniversary: Congress leaders pay floral tribute to former PM at Shanti Van
Childhood
by Rainer Maria Rilke
It would be good to give much thought, before
you try to find words for something so lost,
for those long childhood afternoons you knew
that vanished so completely -and why?
We’re still reminded-: sometimes by a rain,
but we can no longer say what it means;
life was never again so filled with meeting,
with reunion and with passing on
as back then, when nothing happened to us
except what happens to things and creatures:
we lived their world as something human,
and became filled to the brim with figures.
And became as lonely as a shepherd
and as overburdened by vast distances,
and summoned and stirred as from far away,
and slowly, like a long new thread,
introduced into that picture-sequence
where now having to go on bewilders us.
Picture Of Childhood
by Yevgeny Yevtushenko
Elbowing our way, we run.
Someone is being beaten up in the market.
You wouldn’t want to miss it!
We pick up speed, racing to the uproar,
scooping up water in our felt boots
and forgetting to wipe our sniffles.
And stood stock-still. In our little hearts something tightened,
when we saw how the ring of sheepskin coats,
fur coats, hooded coats, was contracting,
how he stood up near the green vegetable stall
with his head pulled into his shoulders from the hail
of jabs, kicks, spitting, slaps in the face.
Childhood Memories
by Paul L. Kennedy
I was happy when I was a lad.
It wasn’t all good, but it wasn’t half bad.
We played with sticks we played with stones;
we built ourselves dens that we called homes.
We explored the woods, we climbed the trees,
and we played with marbles on our knees.
Conkers in season we threaded with string.
If your opponent missed, your knuckles would sting.
We built trolleys with old pram wheels.
We were often too busy to go home for our meals.
We made catapults, bows and arrows and spears,
quite often resulting in painful tears.
About My Dreams
by Hilda Conkling
Now the flowers are all folded,
And the dark is going by.
The evening is arising …
It is time to rest.
When I am sleeping I find my pillow full of dreams.
They are all new dreams:
No one told them to me
Before I came through the cloud.
They remember the sky, my little dreams,
They have wings, they are quick, they are sweet.
Help me tell my dreams
To the other children,
So that their bread may taste whiter,
So that the milk they drink
May make them think of meadows
In the sky of stars.
Help me give bread to the other children
So that their dreams may come back:
So they will remember what they knew
Before they came through the cloud.
Let me hold their little hands in the dark,
The lonely children,
The babies that have no mothers any more.
Dear God, let me hold up my silver cup
For them to drink,
And tell them the sweetness
Of my dreams.
What Can We Give Our Children
by Ruskin Bond
What can we give our children?
Knowledge, yes, and honour too,
And strength of character
And the gift of laughter.
What gold do we give our children?
The gold of a sunny childhood,
Open spaces, a home that binds
Us to the common good…
These simple things
Are greater than the gold of kings.
Watch Pandit Nehru birth anniversary: Congress leaders pay floral tribute to former PM at Shanti Van
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