Yesterday I saw the moon
Sailing high, but faint and white
As a schoolboy’s paper kite.
“‘In broad daylight yesterday
I read a poet’s mystic lay;
And it seemed to me, at most,
As a phantom or a ghost.’”
“Oh horrible, horrible!” cried Harry. “So then you think my verses poor and unreal? Not fire enough? or what—what is it?”
“Pause, and hear me,” continued I, reading on:—