Walter de la Mare -- famous as a fantasist and as a poet -- was a lot of things. Brilliant, well spoken, and just plain cool. But you know? In the end, his own poems speak better of this collection of poetry than we ever could. And so we let him have his say --
Ere my heart beats too coldly and faintly
To remember sad things, yet be gay,
I would sing a brief song of the world<@146>s little children
Magic hath stolen away.
The primroses scattered by April,
The stars of the wide Milky Way,
Cannot outnumber the hosts of the children
Magic hath stolen away.
The buttercup green of the meadows,
The snow of the blossoming may,
Lovelier are not than the legions of children
Magic hath stolen away.
The waves tossing surf in the moonbeam,
The albatross lone on the spray,
Alone know the tears wept in vain for the children
Magic hath stolen away.
In vain: for at hush of the evening,
When the stars twinkle into the grey,
Seems to echo the faraway calling of children
Magic hath stolen away.
