Where is the magick child, in sleepland Splendid,
here faint hope or blithe spirit's rarely found
in seas never ventured after mortal day's ended,
nor lost in stranger waters where bliss is bound
through misty evening tide of unrequited dreams
inhaled 'tween cherub lips in so gentle slumber,
while midnight winds mingle with moonlight beams
to kiss and caress her perfect sense of wonder;
she wanders hereafter in legend-haunted groves
comforted by laughter and a gift of sacred sight,
dances with faeries whose secret names she knows
until holy Darkness wakes to put away the night.
Now she lies sweetly napping in a bed that's true,
upon the open casement, face damp with morning dew.