whose banks were rotting into mud

[vilmibm]

so wily, and we must follow with wile
it is like a sort of awful nightmare
but he himself, I doubted not
aged forty years, whose mother too had been a lead worker

how dense and grim Disasters gather nigh
It is a continuation of the others
highly aggrieved, ran back into the living room where
some may hate, and some may scorn

to the gates of the town from which they came
and it defines the ideal mental condition
It was half-past two oclock when the knock came
whose banks were rotting into mud

She then hastened away to her mother
There are no yellow stars on the mountain The bluebells have long died away From the brink of the moss-bedded fountain-- From the side of the wintry brae

[vilmibm]

foobar