Monday, March 17, 2014

The Creeping Scyther

                                    Here hung those lips that I have kissed I know
                                    not how oft. Where be your gibes now? Your
                                    gambols? Your songs? Your flashes of merriment,
                                    that were wont to set the table on a roar? Not one
                                    now, to mock your own grinning?

No comments :

Post a Comment