Ode to the Children

It is,
The most beautiful thing,
When together they sit,
All alone on the swing,

Not a moment is shared,
Like the one come before,
And each moment is shared,
Before an open door,

Yet each kiss and each touch,
Enters muffled and hoarse,
While his legs become rough,
And her smile grows coarse

When into the room,
They leap,
Where does innocence sleep?