Did you ever happen to think, when dark
Lights up the lamps outside the pane,
And you look through the glass on that wonderland,
Where the witches are making their tea in the rain,
Of the great procession that says its prayers
All the world over, and climbs the stairs,
And goes to a wonderland of dreams,
Where nothing at all is just what it seems?
All the world over, at eight o'clock,
Sad and sorrowful, glad and gay,
These with their eyes as bright as dawn,
Those almost asleep on the way;
This one capering—that one cross,
Plaited tresses or curling floss,
Slowly the long procession streams
Up to the wonderland of dreams.