Long, long ago

Long, long ago

Long, long ago, when I'm but a child

I've written my tales; so young and so wild.

On pages then blank, I' ve printed my soul:

An innocent image, a maiden's heart -- whole.

Now, all those warm feelings have grown stark and cold...

The pages have yellowed, the cover's now old.

And all of the pictures which I cherished so

Are faded and torn, they've nothing to show.

I loved and I lived... Oh! once upon a time,

And now my whole world has run out of rhyme.