In the uproar we turn, we wait, we turn, we wait, we wait, we turn for who is the fairest of them all?
Stevie Smith evokes in her poem the sentiment of the outsider. But the outsider is not necessarily the misfit or the one who is misunderstood.
An odd little mime. Little pigs on market day!
What dread the summer brings as the pallid aged body, cosseted and hidden by winter is threatened by heat and sun. There is no sympathy from the carefree young!