First there's the children's house of make-believe, Some shattered dishes underneath a pine, The playthings in the playhouse of the children. Weep for what little things could make them glad.

The height of the adventure is the height Of country where two village cultures faded Into each other. Both of them are lost. And if you're lost enough to find…

This was no playhouse but a house in earnest. Your destination and your destiny's A brook that was the water of the house, Cold as a spring as yet so near its …

As for the woods' excitement over you That sends light rustle rushes to their leaves, Charge that to upstart inexperience. Where were they all not twenty years…

Children love secret club houses. They love secrecy even when there's no need for secrecy.

A little bench of heedless bishops here, And there a chancellor in embryo.

I've heard that story about kids are high naturally, but I've seen kids that aren't high, kids who've had the high taken out of them.