what's o'clock
31
Then a gust of wind ran upon the tall rye,
And it flung up its glittering helmets and shouted
"Bread!" again and again,
And the hubbub of it rolled superbly under the balancing pines.
And it flung up its glittering helmets and shouted
"Bread!" again and again,
And the hubbub of it rolled superbly under the balancing pines.
"Three times the trumpets," thought I,
And I picked the cinquefoil.
"Why not on my writing-table," I said, caressing its petals with my finger.
And that, I take it, is the end of the story.
And I picked the cinquefoil.
"Why not on my writing-table," I said, caressing its petals with my finger.
And that, I take it, is the end of the story.
