Lady Clara Vere de Vere <br />Was eight years old, she said: <br />Every ringlet, lightly shaken, ran itself in golden thread. <br /> <br />She took her little porringer: <br />Of me she shall not win renown: <br />For the baseness of its nature shall have strength to drag her <br />down. <br /> <br />"Sisters and brothers, little Maid? <br />There stands the Inspector at thy door: <br />Like a dog, he hunts for boys who know not two and two are four." <br /> <br />"Kind words are more than coronets," <br />She said, and wondering looked at me: <br />"It is the dead unhappy night, and I must hurry home to tea."<br /><br />Lewis Carroll<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/echoes/
