O children, open your arms to me,
Let your hair fall over my eyes;
Let me sleep a moment - and then awake
In your Garden of sweet Surprise!
For the grown up folk 
Are a wearisome folk,
And they laugh all my fancies to scorn,
They laugh all my fancies to scorn

O children, open your hearts to me,
And tell me your wonder-thoughts.
Who lives in the palace inside your brain?
Who plays in its outer courts?
Who hides in the hours To-morrow holds?
Who sleeps in your Yesterdays?
Who tiptoes along past the curtained folds
Of the shadow that Twilight lays?

O children, open your eyes to me,
And tell me your visions too;
Who squeezes the sponge when the salt tears flow
To dim their magical blue?
 ... 
Who brushes the fringe of their lace-veined lids?
Who trims their innocent light?
Who draws up the blinds when the sun peeps in?
Who fastens them down at night?
 ... 

O children, I pray you speak low to me,
And cover my eyes with your hands.
O kiss me again till I sleep and dream
That I'm lost in your Fairylands;
For the grown up folk
Are a troublesome folk,
And the book of their childhood is torn!
Is blotted, and crumpled, and torn!