Babylon

 The child alone a poet is:
Spring and Fairyland are his.

Truth and Reason show but dim,
And all’s poetry with him.
 
Rhyme and music flow in plenty
For the lad of one-and-twenty, 
But Spring for him is no more now 
Than daisies to a munching cow; 
Just a cheery pleasant season, 
Daisy buds to live at ease on.

He’s forgotten how he smiled 
And shrieked at snowdrops when a child,
Or wept one evening secretly 
For April’s glorious misery.
 
Wisdom made him old and wary
Banishing the Lords of Faery.
 
Wisdom made a breach and battered 
Babylon to bits: she scattered 
To the hedges and ditches 
All our nursery gnomes and witches.

Lob and Puck, poor frantic elves, 
Drag their treasures from the shelves.
 
Jack the Giant-killer’s gone, 
Mother Goose and Oberon, 
Bluebeard and King Solomon.

Robin, and Red Riding Hood 
Take together to the wood, 
And Sir Galahad lies hid 
In a cave with Captain Kidd.
 
None of all the magic hosts,
None remain but a few ghosts 
Of timorous heart, to linger on 
Weeping for lost Babylon.

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