In many a secret place,
When rivulets dance their wayward round,
And beauty, born of murmuring sound,
Shall pass into her face.”
A livin’ poem bound up in a girl’s sweet body.
And I felt, too, in view of what I knew, that all that would be left of Al Faizi in the futer would be the memory of what had been and never more would be. Yes, all took up as he wuz with the poets of the western world, he wuz more heart interested in the livin’ poem bound up in a girl’s sweet body. And he turned away from the hants of poets to look in her sweet face.
Poor creeter! I see what he didn’t spoze I did, and all the rest wuz deef and dum—deef as posts and dum as adders.
But I am a-eppisodin’ and to resoom.
We sot out for London the next day.