|
|
|
Now air is hushed, save where the weak-ey'd bat With short shrill shriek flits by on leathern wing, Or where the beetle winds His small but sullen horn, As oft he rises midst the twilight path, Against the pilgrim borne in heedless hum: -William Collins (1721-1759), Ode to Evening |
| If you have enjoyed my photographs, please consider making a donation to an innovative education project led by us, a project that seeks to help poor kids in rural India. |