Classic Poem

My Grandpapa lives in a wonderful house
— With a great many windows and doors,
There are stairs that go up, and stairs that go down,
— And such beautiful, slippery floors.

But of all of the rooms, even mother's and mine,
— And the bookroom, and parlour and all,
I like the green dining-room so much the best
— Because of its ceiling and wall.

Right over your head is a funny round hole
— With apples and pears falling through;
There's a big bunch of grapes all purply and sweet,
— And melons and pineapples too.

They tumble and tumble, but never come down
— Though I've stood underneath a long while
With my mouth open wide, for I always have hoped
— Just a cherry would drop from the pile.

No matter how early I run there to look
— It has always begun to fall through;
And one night when at bedtime I crept in to see,
— It was falling by candle-light too.

I am sure they are magical fruits, and each one
— Makes you hear things, or see things, or go
Forever invisible; but it's no use,
— And of course I shall just never know.

For the ladder's too heavy to lift, and the chairs
— Are not nearly so tall as I need.
I've given up hope, and I feel I shall die
— Without having accomplished the deed.

It's a little bit sad, when you seem very near
— To adventures and things of that sort,
Which nearly begin, and then don't; and you know
— It is only because you are short.