(COMMUNICATED BY AN EIGHT-YEAR-OLD)

I've a palace set in a garden fair,
And, oh, but the flowers are rich and rare,
Always growing
And always blowing
Winter or summer—it doesn't matter—
For there's never a wind that dares to scatter
The wonderful petals that scent the air
About the walls of my palace there.
And the palace itself is very old,
And it's built of ivory splashed with gold.
It has silver ceilings and jasper floors
And stairs of marble and crystal doors;
And whenever I go there, early or late,
The two tame dragons who guard the gate
And refuse to open the frowning portals
To sisters, brothers and other mortals,
Get up with a grin
And let me in.
And I tickle their ears and pull their tails
And pat their heads and polish their scales;
And they never attempt to flame or fly,
Being quelled by me and my human eye.
Then I pour them drink out of golden flagons,
Drink for my two tame trusty dragons...
But John,
Who's a terrible fellow for chattering on,
John declares
They are Teddy-bears;
And the palace itself, he has often said,
Is only the gardener's lean-to shed.

In the vaulted hall where we have the dances
There are suits of armour and swords and lances,
Plenty of steel-wrought who's-afraiders,
All of them used by real crusaders;
Corslets, helmets and shields and things
Fit to be worn by warrior-kings,
Glittering rows of them—
Think of the blows of them,
Lopping,
Chopping,
Smashing
And slashing
The Paynim armies at Ascalon...
But, bother the boy, here comes our John
Munching a piece of currant cake,
Who says the lance is a broken rake,
And the sword with its keen Toledo blade
Is a hoe, and the dinted shield a spade,
Bent and useless and rusty-red,
In the gardener's silly old lean-to shed.

And sometimes, too, when the night comes soon
With a great magnificent tea-time moon.
Through the nursery-window I peep and see
My palace lit for a revelry;
And I think I shall try to go there instead
Of going to sleep in my dull small bed.
But who are these
In the shade of the trees
That creep so slow
In a stealthy row?
They are Indian braves, a terrible band,
Each with a tomahawk in his hand,
And each has a knife without a sheath Fiercely stuck in his gleaming teeth.
Are the dragons awake? Are the dragons sleepers?
Will they meet and scatter these crafty creepers?
What ho! ... But John, who has sorely tried me,
Trots up and flattens his nose beside me;
Against the window he flattens it
And says he can see
As well as me,
But never an Indian—not a bit;
Not even the top of a feathered head,
But only a wall and the lean-to shed.