The different worlds in which we live are strange;

                                       We shift about to see what we can find,

                                       Yet none is ever quite beyond our range.

                                       The one, nostalgic world of things behind,

                                       Is rich with gems that were or might have been,

                                       That lie on purple shadows of the mind.

                                       We drift into the dreamy tome world then,

                                       Adventurous, exotic fairyland

                                       Peopled with characters from an artful pen.

                                       But oh, the busy world of things at hand,

                                       A touch so firm and warm with friendly art,

                                       And softest words from those who understand.

                                       Regret and fancy each must play a part

                                       With tender love to fill a human heart.