while parents kiss

At evening when the lamp is lit,;Around the fire my parents sit;;They sit at home and talk and sing,;And do not play at anything.

Now, with my little gun, I crawl;All in the dark along the wall,;And follow round the forest track;Away behind the sofa back.

There, in the night, where none can spy,;All in my hunter's camp I lie,;And play at books that I have read;Till it is time to go to bed.

These are the hills, these are the woods,;These are my starry solitudes;;And there the river by whose brink;The roaring lions come to drink.

I see the others far away;As if in firelit camp they lay,;And I, like to an Indian scout,;Around their party prowled about.

So when my nurse comes in for me,;Home I return across the sea,;And go to bed with backward looks;At my dear land of Story-books.

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