By The Babe Unborn

If trees were tall and grasses short, As in some crazy tale, If here and there a sea were blue Beyond the breaking pale,
    If a fixed fire hung in the air To warm me one day through, If deep green hair grew on great hills, I know what I should do.
    In dark I lie: dreaming that there Are great eyes cold or kind, And twisted streets and silent doors, And living men behind.
    Let storm-clouds come: better an hour, And leave to weep and fight, Than all the ages I have ruled The empires of the night.
    I think that if they gave me leave Within that world to stand, I would be good through all the day I spent in fairyland.
    They should not hear a word from me Of selfishness or scorn, If only I could find the door, If only I were born.