The Troll That Wonders How Old He Is Theodore Kittelsen



I don’t possess a talent to appreciate:
No sweet-sound of song,
no melody of music,
no ascendancy of aura.

I can’t entice with a beauty to enjoy:
No skin of silk,
no lock of luster,
no physique of phantasy.

I don’t blossom, yet seed on acres of agony:
No sanguine sprout,
no sunflower spread,
no unfolding union.

I can’t swim, but drown in seas of sentiment:
No fortunate float,
no free flow,
no salvaged sink.




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