Of far-off lands,
Of castles, and of kings;

Of dolls, and toys;
But oftentime such things

Are tucked away with
Childhood's memories,
And pushed aside
As foolish reveries;

She's too mature for
Thoughts of giants' rings,

Of puppy dogs,
And birds
With painted wings;

She's almost grown,
And oh, so very wise.

For what has youth to offer?
Pain, and fear,
And promises
That all turn
Into lies?

If being young
Is just a game,
It's clear
That loneliness
Must be
Its only prize!

Yet, even now,
With womanhood
So near,