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<blockquote style="position: relative; padding-left: 55px;"><section><a href="https://hachyderm.io/users/hrefna/statuses/113517364648937755">Hrefna (DHC) (hrefna@hachyderm.io)'s status on Thursday, 21-Nov-2024 06:18:43 JST</a><a href="https://hachyderm.io/@hrefna" title="hrefna@hachyderm.io"><img src="https://gnusocial.jp/avatar/105361-48-20230308093356.webp" width="48" height="48" alt="Hrefna (DHC)" style="position: absolute; left: 0; top: 0;">Hrefna (DHC)</a></section><article><p>This has been on my mind a lot lately.</p></article><footer><a rel="bookmark" href="https://gnusocial.jp/conversation/4037882#notice-7890391">In conversation</a><time datetime="2024-11-21T06:18:43+09:00" title="Thursday, 21-Nov-2024 06:18:43 JST">about 3 days ago</time> <span>from <span><a href="https://hachyderm.io/@hrefna/113517364648937755" rel="external" title="Sent from hachyderm.io via ActivityPub">hachyderm.io</a></span></span><a href="https://hachyderm.io/@hrefna/113517364648937755">permalink</a><h4>Attachments</h4><ol><li><label><a rel="external" href="https://gnusocial.jp/attachment/3532706">On the Asylum Roadby Charlotte Mew
Theirs is the house whose windows—every pane—
Are made of darkly stained or clouded glass:
Sometimes you come upon them in the lane,
The saddest crowd that you will ever pass.But still we merry town or village folk
Throw to their scattered stare a kindly grin,
And think no shame to stop and crack a joke
With the incarnate wages of man's sin.None but ourselves in our long gallery we meet.
The moor-hen stepping from her reeds with dainty feet,
The hare-bell bowing on his stem,
Dance not with us; their pulses beat
To fainter music; nor do we to them
Make their life sweet.The gayest crowd that they will ever pass
Are we to brother-shadows in the lane:
Our windows, too, are clouded glass
To them, yes, every pane!</a></label><br><a href="https://media.hachyderm.io/media_attachments/files/113/517/364/384/903/804/original/9b2721371113c3db.jpeg" rel="external">https://media.hachyderm.io/media_attachments/files/113/517/364/384/903/804/original/9b2721371113c3db.jpeg</a></li></ol></footer></blockquote>

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Hrefna (DHC) (hrefna@hachyderm.io)'s status on Thursday, 21-Nov-2024 06:18:43 JST Hrefna (DHC)
This has been on my mind a lot lately.
In conversationabout 3 days ago from hachyderm.iopermalink
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1. On the Asylum Road by Charlotte Mew Theirs is the house whose windows—every pane— Are made of darkly stained or clouded glass: Sometimes you come upon them in the lane, The saddest crowd that you will ever pass. But still we merry town or village folk Throw to their scattered stare a kindly grin, And think no shame to stop and crack a joke With the incarnate wages of man's sin. None but ourselves in our long gallery we meet. The moor-hen stepping from her reeds with dainty feet, The hare-bell bowing on his stem, Dance not with us; their pulses beat To fainter music; nor do we to them Make their life sweet. The gayest crowd that they will ever pass Are we to brother-shadows in the lane: Our windows, too, are clouded glass To them, yes, every pane!
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