Mere solitude upon my hill,
cannot keep these thoughts from spill.
My hesitation lost through pen;
the words of children, fears of men.
How can a little girl, so alive,
make me feel so dead inside?
Her purest heart and gilded day,
will be lost in words I can’t portray.
All fantasies, she does believe,
for everything is as she perceives.
If I could live by tales alone,
some happiness I may have known.
She sees the world as I once did,
the solemn tears and sadness hid,
but now I see it as I should,
a bitter soul’s lost childhood.
Oh, how it must feel to grin at will,
or place lilies upon the window sill.
Whenever shall I find my golden ‘noon?
Never, I grew up too soon.
I can’t go back to yesterday because I was a different person then. – Lewis Carroll