The children all go lookingIn vain for Fairyland,Where little folk have dwelling,And wander hand in hand;Where silvery small voicesRing clear upon the air,Where magic little whispersWork wonders everywhere;Where flower fields are forests,For tiny feet to tread;Where one has lived a life-timeBefore the day is fled.For this dear wondrous countryThe children look in vain;They find but empty flowers,Through sun and summer rain.It is the grown folks onlyHave eyes for Fairyland,Where little people wander,And toddle hand in hand;Where happy voices prattle,And whisper secrets strange;Where tiny sprites by magicTo bigger fairies change;Where dancing little figuresGet lost amid the flowers;Where days as years are measured,And minutes count for hours.It is the grown folk onlyCan find the land of elves;How could the children guess it?The fairies are themselves.—Edith Colby Banfield.
The children all go lookingIn vain for Fairyland,Where little folk have dwelling,And wander hand in hand;Where silvery small voicesRing clear upon the air,Where magic little whispersWork wonders everywhere;Where flower fields are forests,For tiny feet to tread;Where one has lived a life-timeBefore the day is fled.For this dear wondrous countryThe children look in vain;They find but empty flowers,Through sun and summer rain.It is the grown folks onlyHave eyes for Fairyland,Where little people wander,And toddle hand in hand;Where happy voices prattle,And whisper secrets strange;Where tiny sprites by magicTo bigger fairies change;Where dancing little figuresGet lost amid the flowers;Where days as years are measured,And minutes count for hours.It is the grown folk onlyCan find the land of elves;How could the children guess it?The fairies are themselves.—Edith Colby Banfield.
The children all go lookingIn vain for Fairyland,Where little folk have dwelling,And wander hand in hand;Where silvery small voicesRing clear upon the air,Where magic little whispersWork wonders everywhere;
The children all go looking
In vain for Fairyland,
Where little folk have dwelling,
And wander hand in hand;
Where silvery small voices
Ring clear upon the air,
Where magic little whispers
Work wonders everywhere;
Where flower fields are forests,For tiny feet to tread;Where one has lived a life-timeBefore the day is fled.For this dear wondrous countryThe children look in vain;They find but empty flowers,Through sun and summer rain.
Where flower fields are forests,
For tiny feet to tread;
Where one has lived a life-time
Before the day is fled.
For this dear wondrous country
The children look in vain;
They find but empty flowers,
Through sun and summer rain.
It is the grown folks onlyHave eyes for Fairyland,Where little people wander,And toddle hand in hand;Where happy voices prattle,And whisper secrets strange;Where tiny sprites by magicTo bigger fairies change;
It is the grown folks only
Have eyes for Fairyland,
Where little people wander,
And toddle hand in hand;
Where happy voices prattle,
And whisper secrets strange;
Where tiny sprites by magic
To bigger fairies change;
Where dancing little figuresGet lost amid the flowers;Where days as years are measured,And minutes count for hours.It is the grown folk onlyCan find the land of elves;How could the children guess it?The fairies are themselves.—Edith Colby Banfield.
Where dancing little figures
Get lost amid the flowers;
Where days as years are measured,
And minutes count for hours.
It is the grown folk only
Can find the land of elves;
How could the children guess it?
The fairies are themselves.
—Edith Colby Banfield.