Page:Through the looking-glass and what Alice found there (IA throughlookinggl00carr4).pdf/16

 Come, hearken then, ere voice of dread, With bitter tidings laden, Shall summon to unwelcome bed A melancholy maiden! We are but older children, dear, Who fret to find our bedtime near.

Without, the frost, the blinding snow, The storm-wind's moody madness— Within, the firelight's ruddy glow, And childhood's nest of gladness. The magic words shall hold thee fast: Thou shalt not heed the raving blast.

And, though the shadow of a sigh May tremble through the story, For "happy summer days" gone by And vanish'd summer glory— It shall not touch, with breath of bale, The pleasance of our fairy-tale.