As little flowers, which the chill of night has bent and huddled, when the white sun strikes, grow straight and open fully on their stems, so did I, too, with my exhausted force.
As little flowers, which the chill of night has bent and huddled, when the white sun strikes, grow straight and open fully on their stems, so did I, too, with my exhausted force.
Uncouth tongues, horrible shriekings of despair, Shrill and faint voices, cries of pain and rage, And, with it all, smiting of hands, were there, Making a tumult, nothing could assuage, To swirl in the air that knows not day or night, Like sand withi
© 2020 Inspirational Stories
© 2020 Inspirational Stories