Opening life's treasure-house to whoso clings
To the dim beauty of imagined things.
Wherefore, good Kringle, do not pass me by,
Who am too old, alas! for trains and blocks,
But stuff the Love of Beauty in my socks
And Childlike Faith to last me till I die;
And there'll be room, I doubt not, in the toes
For Magic Cap and Spectacles of Rose.
And not a song of beauty, sung of old,
Or saga of the dead heroic days,