I Am Fond Of Children - Except

Is All Our Life, Then But A Dream Seen Faintly In The Golden Gleam Athwart Time's Dark Resistless Stream?

And If He Left Off Dreaming About You, Where Do You Suppose You'd Be?

Why Is A Raven Like A Writing Desk?

We Haven't Any And You're Too Young.

Come, Hearken Then, Ere Voice Of Dread, With Bitter Tiding Laden, Shall Summon To Unwelcome Bed A Melancholy Maiden! We Are But Older Children, Dear, Who Fret To Find Our Bedtime Near.