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Serge Valinium's Princess Page

Every Little Girl is a Princess

Various Poems from Lewis Carroll's

"Alice's Adventures in Wonderland"


Child of the pure unclouded brow And dreaming eyes of wonder! Though time be fleet, and I and thou Are half a life asunder, Thy loving smile will surely hail The love-gift of a fairy tale.

I have not seen thy sunny face, Nor heard thy silver laughter'. No thought of me shall find a place In thy young life's hereafter- Enough that now thou wilt not fail To listen to my fairy tale.

A tale begun in other days, When summer suns were glowing- A simple chime, that served to time The rhythm of our rowing- Whose echoes live in memory yet, Though envious years would say "forget."

Come, hearken then, ere voice of dread, With bitter tidings laden, Shall summon to unwelcome bed A melancholy maiden! We are but older children, dear, Who fret to find our bedtime near.

Without, the frost, the blinding snow, The storm wind's moody madness- Within, the firelight's ruddy glow And childhood's nest of gladness. The magic words shall hold thee fast: Thou shalt not heed the raving blast.

And though the shadow of a sigh May tremble through the story, For ""happy summer days"' gone by, And vanish'd summer glory- It shall not touch, with breath of bale, The pleasance of our fairy tale.


All in the golden afternoon Full leisurely we glide; For both our oars, with little skill, By little arms are plied, While little hands make vain pretense Our wanderings to guide.

Ah, cruel Three! In such an hour, Beneath such dreamy weather, To beg a tale of breath too weak To stir the tiniest feather! Yet what can one poor voice avail Against three tongues together?

Imperious Prima flashes forth Her edict to "begin it"- In gentler tones Secunda hopes "There will be nonsense in it"_ While Tertia interrupts the tale Not more than once a minute.

Anon, to sudden silence won, In fancy they pursue The dream-child moving through a land Of wonders wild and new, In friendly chat with bird or beast- And half believe it true.

And ever, as the story drained The wells of fancy dry, And faintly strove that weary one To put the subject by, "The rest next time" - "It is next time!" The happy voices cry.

Thus grew the tale of Wonderland: Thus slowly, one by one, Its quaint events were hammered out- And now the tale is done, And home we steer, a merry crew, Beneath the setting sun.

Alice! a childish story take, And with a gentle hand Lay it where Childhood's dreams are twined In Memory's mystic band, Like pilgrim's withered wreath of flowers Plucked in a far-off land.

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