To the children

O children, open your arms to me,

Let your hair fall over my eyes;

Let me sleep a moment - and then awake

In your Gardens of sweet Surprise!

For the grown up folk

Are a wearisome folk,

And they laugh all my fancies to scorn,

My fun and my fancies to scorn

O children, open your hearts to me,

And tell me your wonder-thoughts.

Who lives in the palace inside your brain?

Who plays in its outer courts?

Who hides in the hours To-morrow holds?

Who sleeps in your Yesterdays?

Who tiptoes along past the curtained folds

Of the shadow that Twilight lays?

O children, open your eyes to me,

And tell me your visions too;

Who squeezes the sponge when the salt tears flow

To dim their magical blue?

Who draws up the blinds when the sun peeps in?

Who fastens them down at night?

Who brushes the fringe of their lace-veined lids?

Who trims their innocent light?

Then, children, I beg you, sing low to me,

And cover my eyes with your hands.

O kiss me again till I sleep and dream

That I'm lost in your Fairylands;

For the grown up folk

Are a troublesome folk,

And the book of their childhood is torn!

Is blotted, and crumpled, and torn!