C. S. LEWIS DAILY: SEPTEMBER 20

The wood with its cold flowers had nothing there

More beautiful than he, new waked from sleep,

New born from joy. His soul lay very bare

That moment to life’s touch, and pondering deep

Now first he knew that no desire could keep

These hours for always, and that me do die

—But oh, the present glory of lungs and eye!

From Narrative Poems

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