And thus we travel, hand in hand,
The storied roads of Fairyland.
Ah, Little One, when years have fled,
And left their silver on my head,
And when the dimming eyes of age
With difficulty scan the page,
Perchance I’ll turn the tables then;
Perchance I’ll put the question, when
I borrow of your better sight:
“Please—will you read to me to-night?”