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“I found a room, both quiet and slow, a room where the walls are thick. Where pixie dust is kept in jars, and paper rockets soar to Mars, and battles leave no lasting scars as clocks forget to tick. I guard this room, both small and bare, this room in which stories live. Where Peter Pan and Alice play, and Sinbad sails at dawn of day, and wolves cry 'boy' to get their way when ogres won’t forgive. With you I’ll share my hiding place, this room under cloak and spell. We’ll snuggle up inside a nook, and read a venturous story book, that makes us question in a look what nonsense fairies tell. In fictive plots and fabled ends, Our happy-e’er-afters dwell!” — Richelle E. Goodrich
I found a room, both quiet and slow,
a room where the walls are thick.
Where pixie dust is kept in jars,
and paper rockets soar to Mars,
and battles leave no lasting scars
as clocks forget to tick.
I guard this room, both small and bare,
this room in which stories live.
Where Peter Pan and Alice play,
and Sinbad sails at dawn of day,
and wolves cry 'boy' to get their way
when ogres won’t forgive.
With you I’ll share my hiding place,
this room under cloak and spell.
We’ll snuggle up inside a nook,
and read a venturous story book,
that makes us question in a look
what nonsense fairies tell.
In fictive plots and fabled ends,
Our happy-e’er-afters dwell!