"Like them?" Klaus wonders, his eyes straying again. It takes him a moment to speak, as he considers the question properly. Ahead of them, an awning shifts a bit, and the water puddled gathered in its cloth splashes down onto the street
"I suppose I do. They are lovely backdrops to paint to, adding colours to the pieces. And a skilled quill may as well make them of jewels," he adds with a gentle smile, his hand darting the bag at his side once again.
Out from it, he pulls a book; battered and fuzzy where the edges have frayed through the cloth covering it. It's green is mossy, and pale with age, and many pastel colours peek out from between the pages; pinks and blues and yellows, at varying heights along the fore-edge. The stranger slips through a few of them, glancing briefly, before he finds the one he'd been looking for, and his right hand cradles the paper to stillness.
"Gold of the daffodil, drawn Out of the cup of the dawn, Gold of the daffodil, born In the bright mines of the morn, Gold of the daffodil, spun On the warm loom of the sun, Flood through my spirit, and smite Me with thine orient light! I that am pallid and poor, Wasted by winter away, Be thou my succor and cure! Quicken my questioning clay! That I may rouse me and sing, Touch thou my pulses with spring!"
"Daffodil Gold, by Clinton Scollard," he finishes, still caught up in the beauty that he has shared. His smile is deeper, glints into his eyes and the lilt of his head as he speaks, and the lyrical tone of his voice lends itself well to the words he's read from the pages.
no subject
"I suppose I do. They are lovely backdrops to paint to, adding colours to the pieces. And a skilled quill may as well make them of jewels," he adds with a gentle smile, his hand darting the bag at his side once again.
Out from it, he pulls a book; battered and fuzzy where the edges have frayed through the cloth covering it. It's green is mossy, and pale with age, and many pastel colours peek out from between the pages; pinks and blues and yellows, at varying heights along the fore-edge. The stranger slips through a few of them, glancing briefly, before he finds the one he'd been looking for, and his right hand cradles the paper to stillness.
"Gold of the daffodil, drawn
Out of the cup of the dawn,
Gold of the daffodil, born
In the bright mines of the morn,
Gold of the daffodil, spun
On the warm loom of the sun,
Flood through my spirit, and smite
Me with thine orient light!
I that am pallid and poor,
Wasted by winter away,
Be thou my succor and cure!
Quicken my questioning clay!
That I may rouse me and sing,
Touch thou my pulses with spring!"
"Daffodil Gold, by Clinton Scollard," he finishes, still caught up in the beauty that he has shared. His smile is deeper, glints into his eyes and the lilt of his head as he speaks, and the lyrical tone of his voice lends itself well to the words he's read from the pages.