Inopportune A child in wild flower up to his knee Said “I feel the blue ones pushing me. The butterflies are all riding in herds And the little birds’ eggs are full of birds; I think the clouds are talking about me And the trees can’t very well do without me; The valleys are misty and full of sea, And the hills are floating and calling me. The hills are ships and they call and shout, And I’ll sail with them till the stars come out.” But some old men came out of their attics And told him a lot about mathematics, And lectured upon what mists are made of And elements all birds’ eggs are laid of. The geologist pulled the hills to shreds’ One withered the wildflowers in their beds With a Latinish name for everything. And abashed the butterflies on the wing. One informed the stars right to their faces How slow the light travels from their places, And embarrassed the sky till it burst in thunder. The child’s long lashes had tears in under; He said, “I only wanted to wonder.” - Rose O’Neill Courtesy of Ladies’ Home Journal
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