There's something you will do, Before the clock sweeps past nine, That will make time stand on its head, Etched in your memory forever— The apotheosis of childhood imagination. It might be writing a play Whose characters had never been dreamt, Or drawing an intricate maze, The length of your entire hallway. The tragedy is, we can never recapture The elusive ether— The only thing you can do is notice With the greatest of curiosity, The spark in another And stoke the flame With your warm breath.