Your children are not your children. They
are the sons and daughters of life's
longing for itself. They come through you
but not from you. And though they are
with you yet they belong not to you. You
may give them your love but not your
thoughts, for they have their own
thoughts. You may house their bodies but
not their souls, for their souls dwell in
the house of tomorrow which you cannot
visit, not even in your dreams you may
strive to be like them, but seek not to
make them like you. For life goes not
backward nor tarries with yesterday. You
are the bows from which your children as
living arrows are sent forth. The archer
sees the mark upon the path of the
infinite, and he bends you with his might
than his arrows may go Swift and far.
Let your bending in the archer's hand
be for gladness; For even as he loves the
arrow that flies, so he loves also the
bow that is stable
