The Lean-To-Shed

(COMMUNICATED BY AN EIGHT-YEAR-OLD)     I've a palace set in a garden fair,     And, oh, but the flowers are rich and rare,         Always growing         And always blowing     Winter or summer - it doesn't matter -     For there's never a wind that dares to scatter     The wonderful petals that scent the air     About the walls of my palace there.     And the palace itself is very old,     And it's built of ivory splashed with gold.     It has silver ceilings and jasper floors     And stairs of marble and crystal doors;     And whenever I go there, early or late,     The two tame dragons who guard the gate     And refuse to open the frowning portals     To sisters, brothers and other mortals,         Get up with a grin         And let me in.     And I tickle their ears and pull their tails     And pat their heads and polish their scales;     And they never attempt to flame or fly,     Being quelled by me and my human eye.     Then I pour them drink out of golden flagons,     Drink for my two tame trusty dragons...         But John,         Who's a terrible fellow for chattering on,         John declares         They are Teddy-bears;     And the palace itself, he has often said,     Is only the gardener's lean-to shed.     In the vaulted hall where we have the dances     There are suits of armour and swords and lances,     Plenty of steel-wrought who's-afraiders,     All of them used by real crusaders;     Corslets, helmets and shields and things     Fit to be worn by warrior-kings,         Glittering rows of them -         Think of the blows of them,         Lopping,         Chopping,         Smashing         And slashing     The Paynim armies at Ascalon...     But, bother the boy, here comes our John     Munching a piece of currant cake,     Who says the lance is a broken rake,     And the sword with its keen Toledo blade     Is a hoe, and the dinted shield a spade,     Bent and useless and rusty-red,     In the gardener's silly old lean-to shed.     And sometimes, too, when the night comes soon     With a great magnificent tea-time moon.     Through the nursery-window I peep and see     My palace lit for a revelry;     And I think I shall try to go there instead     Of going to sleep in my dull small bed.         But who are these         In the shade of the trees         That creep so slow         In a stealthy row?     They are Indian braves, a terrible band,     Each with a tomahawk in his hand,     And each has a knife without a sheath     Fiercely stuck in his gleaming teeth.     Are the dragons awake? Are the dragons sleepers?     Will they meet and scatter these crafty creepers?     What ho! ... But John, who has sorely tried me,     Trots up and flattens his nose beside me;     Against the window he flattens it         And says he can see         As well as me,     But never an Indian - not a bit;     Not even the top of a feathered head,     But only a wall and the lean-to shed.