Why are those tears in your eyes, my child?

How horrid of them to be always scolding you for nothing

You have stained your fingers and face with ink while writing --
Is that why they call you dirty?

O, fie! Would they dare to call the full moon dirty
Because it has smudged its face with ink?

For every little trifle they blame you, my child
They are ready to find fault for nothing

You tore your clothes while playing --
Is that why they call you untidy?

O, fie! What would they call an autumn morning
That smiles through its ragged clouds?

Take no heed of what they say to you, my child

Take no heed of what they say to you, my child

They make a long list of your misdeeds
Everybody knows how you love sweet things --
Is that why they call you greedy?
O, fie! What then would they call us who love you?