The child alone a poet is:
Spring and Fairyland are his.
Truth and Reason show but dim,
And all’s poetry with him. Rhyme and music flow in
For the lad of one-and-twenty, But Spring for him is no more now Than daisies to a munching cow; Just a cheery pleasant season, Daisy buds to live at ease on.
He’s forgotten how he smiled And shrieked at snowdrops when a child,
Or wept one evening secretly For April’s glorious misery. Wisdom made him old and
Banishing the Lords of Faery. Wisdom made a breach and battered Babylon to bits: she scattered To the hedges and ditches All our nursery gnomes and witches.
Lob and Puck, poor frantic elves, Drag their treasures from the shelves. Jack the Giant-killer’s gone, Mother Goose and Oberon, Bluebeard and King Solomon.
Robin, and Red Riding Hood Take together to the wood, And Sir Galahad lies hid In a cave with Captain Kidd. None of all the magic hosts,
None remain but a few ghosts Of timorous heart, to linger on Weeping for lost Babylon.
