Swing

  Small in the playground a lone figure flies,
  Swooping and soaring halfway to the sky.
  She doesn't have feathered or leathery wings:
  The magic she rides is a swing.

  Down to the pavement and up to the skies--
  Grownups rush past her with unseeing eyes.
  To errand or effort or purpose they cling...
  The magic she rides is a swing.

    Sweet is the dream that she is caught in:
    Swinging, her cares she has forgotten,
    Footloose as any tramp or rover,
    Mistress of all that she looks over.

  Off in the park, her elation I spy.
  If she can go swinging, then why shouldn't I?
  The answer comes sharp as a hornet's cruel sting:
  "You're old, far too old for a swing."

    Under the twilight, someone's calling
    Her from her rising and her falling.
    Shoes scrape the pavement now to stop her.
    Feet bear her running home to supper...

  ... Leaving me here in the park all alone.
  I once was a child, and so what if I've grown?
  Sit down and push off, and I feel my heart sing:
  The magic I ride is a swing.