[Addressed to a child, & made on her name.]
If grass should grow in Pimlico,
With many a flaunting lily;
And crops were mowed from Gloucester Road
Along to Piccadilly—
And down the Strand, with fork in hand,
The cockneys blithe should stream,
To sit in flocks among the cocks,
And feast on curds and cream—
Enquire of me, “What is the fun?”
My First he’ll surely name,
And when perplexed, you ask the next,
He’ll answer just the same.
Far other lives the cockney-wives
Enjoy than those who roam:
At eve they sit, when lamps are lit,
Each in her quiet home:
Low purrs the cat upon the mat:
The busy needle flies—
While ragged sock, or tattered frock,
Grows whole before your eyes.
Enquire of me, “What have you done?”
My second she will name,
And when, perplexed, you ask the next,
She’ll answer just the same.
With picture planned, with brush in hand,
The Artist sits in trance;
While forms of air, bewitching fair,
Before his vision dance.
“Which English stream doth fairest seem,
Artist?” My Third he’ll name.
And when, perplexed, you ask “Which next?”
He’ll answer just the same.
My whole is—well! I scarce can tell:
’Tis something dear to me.
Yet not alone its claims, I own,
For it is one of three.
If you should meet her, please to greet her
And kiss her in my name;
And when, perplexed, you meet the next,
Pray treat her just the same!
Lewis Carroll