Oh, grown-ups cannot understand, And grown-ups never will, How short the way to fairyland Across the purple hill. - Alfred Noyes

He was once our trumpeter, now his bugle's dumb, Pile your arms beneath it, for the owlet light is come, We'll wander through the roses where we marched of old with Peterkin, We'll search the summer sunset where the Hybla beehives hum, And — if we meet a fairy there — we'll ask for news of Peterkin.

There was music all about us, we were growing quite forgetful
We were only singing seamen from the dirt of Londontown.

Then — in that day — we shall not meet Wrong with new wrong, but right with right; Our faith shall make your faith complete When our battalions re-unite. Forward! — what use in idle words? — Forward, O warriors of the soul! There will be breaking up of swords
When that new morning makes us whole.