Bad classics | The Poetry Foundation
Sauntering along, the boy looks up and sees a tree filled with angels, bright angelic wings bespangling every bough like stars. —Alexander Gilchrist Advertise with Poetry Poetry Magazine Poetry Magazine Archive Submit to Poetry
Share Sauntering along, the boy looks up and sees a tree filled with angels, bright angelic wings bespangling every bough like stars. —Alexander Gilchrist I wake to the grayest, maddening light. Good morning. It is seven o’clock in London. What comprises the night? What conducts the dark? The thing worries for the thing. The houseboats on the River Lea waver brightly in the shallows. In Roydon, a swan thinks the lake, which doves—O Fama !—plunge to meet. What does it mean when the footbridge continues into the forever- fit of shadows? And the meadows, purpled like nothing else. The what-is in
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