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.