Dear little Boy, upon these pages find The tangled fancies of thy father's mind, Born of the hours when thou, a little child, Throned on his knee in breathless rapture smiled, Hearing entranced the marvels that were told Of fay and goblin in the days of old. Would that the glamour of those cloudless days Might cheer thee still, what time the toilsome maze Of riper years hath banished fairy lore— And blithesome youth hath fled to come no more!