I've tried to find in this book of yours, Jack Yeats,
Some growthy patch sown with the enchanted seed
Of Grimm or Carroll or Lear - as is the need
Of children in a world of rents and rates
I thought I'd find the lynch-pin of the Fates!
Great wheel pulled out and souls a moment freed
To live in a poet's extravaganza creed,
And rare new dawns shine through the loosened slates.
Another Jack who had a beanstalk did it,
And a Jack who killed a giant did it, too.
Hans Andersen had a tinder-box, could bid it
Find jewels in a hollow, rotten tree.
But nothing happens here, Jack Yeats, where you
Have spun your web of childish fantasy.
