Algernon Blackwood

“ For the grown-up folk Are a wearisome folk, And they laugh my fancies to scorn, My fun and my fancies to scorn. O children, open your hearts to me, And tell me your wonder-thoughts; Who lives in the palace inside your brain? Who plays in its outer courts? Who hides in the hours To-morrow holds? Who sleeps in your yesterdays? Who tiptoes along past the curtained folds Of the shadow that twilight lays? O children, open your eyes to me, And tell me your visions too; Who squeezes the sponge when the salt tears flow To dim their magical blue? Who draws up their blinds when the sun peeps in? ”

“ Who brushes the fringe of their lace-veined lids? Who trims their innocent light? Then, children, I beg you, sing low to me, And cover my eyes with your hands; O kiss me again till I sleep and dream That I'm lost in your fairylands; For the grown-up folk Are a troublesome folk, And the book of their childhood is torn, Is blotted, and crumpled, and torn! Supper at the Pension dissipated effectively the odd sense of enchantment to which he had fallen a victim, but it revived again with a sudden rush when Jimbo and his sister came up at half-past eight to say good-night. ”

“ Jequier talking very loudly about a dozen things at once to the servant-girl, or to any one else who was near enough to listen. Luckily she did not see him. Otherwise he would never have escaped without another offer of a hot-water bottle, a pot of home-made marmalade, or a rug and pillow for his bed. He made his way downstairs into the street unnoticed; but just as he reached the bottom his thundering tread betrayed him. The door flew open at the top.
'Bon soir, bonne nuit,' screamed the voice; 'wait a moment and I'll get the lamp. You'll break your neck. ”