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 garden of sweet surprise! For the grownup folk are a wearisome folk, And they laugh all my fancies to scorn, The grownup folk are a wearisome folk, And they laugh all my fancies to scorn, They laugh all 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 tomorrow 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 brushes the fringe of their lace-veined lids? Who trims their innocent light? Who draws up the blinds when the sun peeps in? Who fastens them down at night? O children, I pray you speak 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; That I’m lost in your Fairylands. For the grownup folk are a troublesome folk, And the book of their childhood is torn! Is blotted, and crumpled, and torn!