森林浴。

And as in uffish thought he stood,
              The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
          Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
              And burbled as it came!
          
          One, two! One, two! And through and through
              The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
          He left it dead, and with its head
              He went galumphing back.
          
          “And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?
              Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
          O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!”
              He chortled in his joy.

“O Tiger-lily,” said Alice, addressing herself to one that was waving gracefully about in the wind, “I wish you could talk!”
          
          “We can talk,” said the Tiger-lily: “when there’s anybody worth talking to.”
          
          Alice was so astonished that she could not speak for a minute: it quite seemed to take her breath away. At length, as the Tiger-lily only went on waving about, she spoke again, in a timid voice—almost in a whisper. “And can all the flowers talk?”
          
          “As well as you can,” said the Tiger-lily. “And a great deal louder.”

“Now, Kitty, let’s consider who it was that dreamed it all. This is a serious question, my dear. (...) You see, Kitty, it must have been either me or the Red King. He was part of my dream, of course—but then I was part of his dream, too! Was it the Red King, Kitty? (...)”

In a Wonderland they lie,
          Dreaming as the days go by,
          Dreaming as the summers die:
          
          Ever drifting down the stream—
          Lingering in the golden gleam—
          Life, what is it but a dream?

I have not seen thy sunny face,
              Nor heard thy silver laughter;
          No thought of me shall find a place
              In thy young life’s hereafter—
          Enough that now thou wilt not fail
          To listen to my fairy-tale.
          
          A tale begun in other days,
              When summer suns were glowing—
          A simple chime, that served to time
              The rhythm of oar rowing—
          Whose echoes live in memory yet,
          Though envious years would say ‘forget.’
          
          
          Without, the frost, the blinding snow.
              The storm-wind’s moody madness—
          Within, the firelight’s ruddy glow,
              And childhood’s nest of gladness.
          The magic words shall hold thee fast:
          Thou shalt not heed the raving blast.
          
          And though the shadow of a sigh
              May tremble through the story,
          For ‘happy summer days’ gone by,
              And vanish’d summer glory—
          It shall not touch with breath of bale
          The pleasance of our fairy-tale.