THE HUNTING OF THE SNARK
THE HUNTING OF THE SNARK an Agony in Eight Fits by Lewis Carroll THE MILLENNIUM FULCRUM EDITION 1.2 Inscribed to a dear Child: in memory of golden summer hours and whispers of a summer sea. Girt with a boyish garb for boyish task, Eager she wields her spade: yet loves as well Rest on a friendly knee, intent to ask The tale he loves to tell. Rude spirits of the seething outer strife, Unmeet to read her pure and simple spright, Deem, if you list, such hours a waste of life, Empty of all delight! Chat on, sweet Maid, and rescue from annoy Hearts that by wiser talk are unbeguiled. Ah, happy he who owns that tenderest joy, The heart-love of a child! Away, fond thoughts, and vex my soul no more! Work claims my wakeful nights, my busy days— Albeit bright memories of that sunlit shor...
