ONCE I passed through my whole. ’T was beautiful;
’T was like a fairy-land, so gay, so glad,
So free from care and sorrow. For a time
I staid. Yet eagerly desired the day
When I might leave its simple joys. Ah me,
If but I might return to them again!
My first is always in my whole. Sometimes
My first is in my last. When, long ago,
Red Ridinghood on kindly errand bent,
Walked to her grandam’s cot across the wood,
My last was on my first.