Explore "Keep the Aspidistra Flying" by George Orwell on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
Sharply the menacing wind sweeps over The bending poplars, newly bare.
As a matter of fact, though, there was not a breath of wind that afternoon. It was almost as mild as spring. Gordon repeated to himself the poem he had begun yesterday, in a cadenced whisper, simply for the pleasure of the sound of it. He was pleased with the poem at this moment. It was a good poem--or would be when it was finished, anyway. He had forgotten that last night it had almost made him sick.