Treasure Island

Comes little lady, a book in hand, A light in her eyes that I understand, And her cheeks aglow from the faery breeze That sweeps across the uncharted seas. She gives me the book, and her word of praise A ton of critical thought outweighs. "I've finished it, daddie!"--a sigh thereat. "Are there any more books in the world like that?"

No, little lady. I grieve to say That of all the books in the world to-day There's not another that's quite the same As this magic book with the magic name. Volumes there be that are pure delight, Ancient and yellowed or new and bright; But--little and thin, or big and fat-- There are no more books in the world like that.

And what, little lady, would I not give For the wonderful world in which you live! What have I garnered one-half as true As the tales Titania whispers you? Ah, late we learn that the only truth Was that which we found in the Book of Youth. Profitless others, and stale, and flat;-- There are no more books in the world like that.