Read Alice in Verse: The Lost Rhymes of Wonderland for Free Online

wasting my time, hunting the ghost in the hall, as my grandfather used to say?
    It was in this moment of thoughtful introspection—and, admittedly, doubt—that an exchange between my grandfather and me resurfaced. I couldn’t have been more than seven at the time. I don’t recall where we were, whether it was night or day, or whether indeed the exchange was simply the product of a dream, but, real or dreamt, the moment remains etched in my memory. I had asked him if he believed anyone would ever find the Lost Rhymes, and though his reply came with a wink, there was no sign of guile: ‘If anyone is to find them, it will be you.’
    As those words settled in, and doubt began to give way to clarity and conviction, I couldn’t help feeling that somewhere my grandfather was smiling. With this vital clue in hand, and a renewed sense of faith in the fable, I set forth in search of the Lost Rhymes once again—only, this time, my journey began on a single blank page and ended with the book you now hold in your hands.
              J. T. Holden
              2009

Thus grew the tale of Wonderland:
Thus slowly, one by one,
Its quaint events were hammered out—
And now the tale is done…
— L EWIS C ARROLL



D OWN THE R ABBIT -H OLE A GAIN
    How doth the morning sunlight breach
         The shade beneath the thickets,
    Along the bank, across the reach,
         To still the song of crickets.
    How drowsily the blades of grass
         Sway on the subtle breezes,
    Which waft about the bonny lass
         Who lounges as she pleases.
    How languid is her study pose,
         How leisurely she strays
    From ’neath the throes of dreary prose
         To more poetic days.
    How longingly she recollects
         Those mem’ries most arousing—
    The puzzling paths that intersect
         Her consciousness when drowsing.
    How lovely spill her silky locks,
         How sweetly drops her jaw
    When first she spies the clock of clocks
         Within the Rabbit’s paw.
    How swiftly to the wooded stop
         Beneath the sunny knoll:
    How deep and dark her sudden drop
         Into the rabbit-hole…





T HE B OTTLE & THE B ISCUIT B OX
    Along the narrow passageway,
         Beneath the dreamy glow
    Of muted light from hanging lamps,
         All lined up in a row.
    Into the hall of many doors,
         Upon the little table
    A bottle sits, and round its neck:
         A most inviting label.
    No hope to breach the smallest door—
         Perhaps then she should drink it.
    And yet it could be poisonous —
         Perhaps she should rethink it.
    A bottle labeled ‘poison’ is
         Most sure to disagree—
    Contrariwise, from ill effects,
         One surely would be free!
    How curious the flavour spills
         Along the dwindling throat!
    How high the little table grows—
         How terribly remote.
    The perfect drink to make one shrink,
         One surely would agree;
    The perfect size for entry, true—
         But not without the key .
    Beneath the soaring table now:
         A tiny biscuit box—
    And there within, a little sin:
         A tasty paradox.
    A little bite, perhaps it might
         Reverse—to some degree—
    The ill-effect and redirect
         Up to the mocking key.
    How curious the morsel slides
         Along the stretching throat!
    How scarcely does the hall of doors
         Accommodate the bloat .
    The perfect dough to make one grow,
         One surely can’t deny.
    And yet the key still out of reach—
         Enough to make one cry!
    Another sip, another bite
         Could do but modest harm—
    A little more to reach the floor
         Might prove to be the charm!
    How doth the proper measurements
          Indeed erase all fears—
    How swiftly one is swept away
         Upon a pool of tears!



T HE C ATERPILLAR ’ S L ESSON ON R HETORIC & R HYME
    Through the sun-dappled forest of towering grass,
    Where a