Wednesday, July 18, 2012

The Lonely Heron

THINK, the ragged turf-boy urges
O’er the dusty road his asses;
Think, on the seashore for the lonely
Heron wings along the sand.
Think, in woodland under oak-boughs
Now the streaming sunbeam passes:
And bethink thee thou art servant
To the same all-moving hand.
Think by Charles Weeks 

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