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. Lewis Carroll
Posted on: Mon, 17 Mar 2014 13:08:09 +0000
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