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Gilbert Blythe to Anne Shirley You’re off again in Neverland searching secretly for your Peter Pan, glancing through Hook’s looking glass when suddenly wind pushes the mast, and Wendy’s voice of reason whispers, “You won’t find him here.” Am I the death of childish dreams? Do my dark eyes evoke screams that carry into the vast night with the Highwayman’s fatal flight? Where says the Lady of Shalott, “You won’t find him in Camelot.” Nothing has to change now, Anne, but your answer to this rejected man. For I don’t want literature with merits —all I want is you, Carrots