Lady Clara Vere de Vere
Was eight years old, she said:
Every ringlet, lightly shaken, ran itself in golden thread. 

She took her little porringer:
Of me she shall not win renown:
For the baseness of its nature shall have strength to drag her 
down. 

"Sisters and brothers, little Maid?
There stands the Inspector at thy door:
Like a dog, he hunts for boys who know not two and two are four." 

"Kind words are more than coronets,"
She said, and wondering looked at me:
"It is the dead unhappy night, and I must hurry home to tea." 

Added: Mar 16 2005 | Viewed: 843 times | Comments (0)

Poet: Lewis Carroll
Poem: Echoes

Poem of the Day on:
Dec 18 2007
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