The Clod
I PICKED up the clod.
“You may yet be a man,” I said. “Dream on.
Are you not glad? Do you not tremble?”
But dully it looked at me.
I could swear I heard a sigh of relief.
There was no ecstasy, no joy.
“I have been a man,” the clod said.
“You may yet be a man,” I said. “Dream on.
Are you not glad? Do you not tremble?”
But dully it looked at me.
I could swear I heard a sigh of relief.
There was no ecstasy, no joy.
“I have been a man,” the clod said.
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