Greybeards at Play by G. K. (Gilbert Keith) Chesterton
page 15 of 17 (88%)
page 15 of 17 (88%)
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But still, in sudden moods of dusk,
I hear those great weird wings, Feel vaguely thankful to the vast Stupidity of things. * * * * * ENVOY. Clear was the night: the moon was young: The larkspurs in the plots Mingled their orange with the gold Of the forget-me-nots. The poppies seemed a silver mist: So darkly fell the gloom. You scarce had guessed yon crimson streaks Were buttercups in bloom. But one thing moved: a little child Crashed through the flower and fern: And all my soul rose up to greet The sage of whom I learn. I looked into his awful eyes: I waited his decree: |
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