And somehow
the simple melody helped to conceal the meagreness of the childish
words. Everywhere, from sky and lawn and solemn trees, the Past came
softly in and listened too.
There's a Fairy that hides in the beautiful eyes
Of children who treat her well;
In the little round hole where the eyeball lies
She weaves her magical spell.
Oh, tell it to me,
Oh, how can it be,
This Spell of the Blue-Eyes Fairy.
Well,--the eyes must be blue,
And the heart must be true,
And the child must be _better_ than gold;
And then, if you'll let her,
The quicker the better,
She'll make you forget that you're old,
That you're heavy and stupid, and--old!
So, if such a child you should chance to see,
Or with such a child to play,
No matter how weary and dull you be,
Nor how many tons you weigh;
You will suddenly find that you're young again,
And your movements are light and airy,
And you'll try to be solemn and stiff in vain--
It's the Spell of the Blue-Eyes Fairy!
Now I've told it to you,
And you _know_ it is true--
It's the Spell of the Blue-Eyes Fairy!
'And it's the same spell,' said the old man in his corner as the last
notes died away, and they sat on some minutes longer in the fragrant
darkness, 'that you cast about us as a boy, Henry Rogers, when you
made that wonderful Net of Stars and fastened it with your comets'
nails to the big and little cedars.
Pages:
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79