A poem for the day.

A tale begun in other days,
When summer suns were glowing –-
A simple chime, that served to time
The rhythm of our rowing –-
Whose echoes live in memory yet,
Though envious years would say ‘forget’.

Come, hearken then, ere voice of dread,
With bitter tidings laden,
Shall summon to unwelcome bed
A melancholy maiden!
We are but older children, dear,
Who fret to find our bedtime near.

Without, the frost, the blinding snow,
The storm-wind’s moody madness –-
Within, the firelight’s ruddy glow,
And childhood’s nest of gladness.
The magic words shall hold thee fast:
Thou shalt not heed the raving blast.

And though the shadow of a sigh
May tremble through the story,
For ‘happy summer days’ gone by,
And vanished summer glory –-
It shall not touch with breath of bale
The pleasance of our fairy-tale.

—Lewis Carrol (1871)