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, harken 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.