"O, grown-ups cannot understand,
And grown-ups never will,
How short's the way to fairyland
Across the purple hill:
They smile: their smile is very bland,
Their eyes are wise and chill;
And yet—at just a child's command—
The world's an Eden still."
Collected Poems by Alfred Noyes.
Thank the stars that watch over us in love that the great-hearted poets, and the children of the world—at least those little ones that a half-way Christian civilization has not robbed of childhood—know that "The world's an Eden still."
From the prelude to "The Flower of Old Japan" comes that same note, like a bluebird in springtime, that note of belief, of trust, of hope:
"Do you remember the blue stream;
The bridge of pale bamboo;
The path that seemed a twisted dream
Where everything came true;
The purple cheery-trees; the house
With jutting eaves below the boughs;
The mandarins in blue,
With tiny tapping, tilted toes,
With curious curved mustachios?
* * * * *
"Ah, let us follow, follow far
Beyond the purple seas;
Beyond the rosy foaming bar,
The coral reef, the trees,
The land of parrots and the wild
That rolls before the fearless child
In ancient mysteries:
Onward, and onward if we can,
To Old Japan, to Old Japan."
Collected Poems by Alfred Noyes.
And "The Forest of Wild Thyme" is full of the echos of fairy tales and childhood rhymes heard the world over. Little Peterkin, who went with the children to "Old Japan," is dead now:
"Come, my brother pirates, I am tired of play;
Come and look for Peterkin, little brother Peterkin,
Our merry little comrade that the fairies took away."