In the rain.
I am the starfish vomited up by the retching cod.
He thinks
That I am he.
But I know.
That he is I.
For the creature is far greater than its god."


(Gerda was of those who think it is rather chic to have one rhyme in your
poem, just to show that you can do it.)

"That child over there makes one feel so cheap and ridiculous, jabbering
away."

That was Barry, breaking off to look at Gerda where she lay on her elbows
on a rug, idle and still. "And it's not," he went on, "that she doesn't
know about the subject, either. I've heard her on it."

He threw the daisy chain he had just made at her, so that it alighted on
her head, hanging askew over one eye.

"Just like a daisy bud herself, isn't she," he commented, and raced on,
forgetting her.

Neat in her person and ways, Gerda adjusted the daisy chain so that it
ringed her golden head in an orderly circle. Like a daisy bud herself,
Rodney agreed in his mind, his eyes smiling at her, his affection,
momentarily turned that way, groping for the wild, remote little soul in
her that he only vaguely and paternally knew. The little pretty. And