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When the sky is so happy, and the flowers so luminous, it does not seem possible that the bright angels of this day shall pass into dark night, that slowly these wings shall close, and the cuckoo praise himself to sleep, mad midges dance-in the evening; the grass shiver with dew, wind die, and no bird sing . . . . Yet so it is. Day has gone the song and glamour and swoop of wings.
Pores to dilate dilating. Tup. The joy the feel the warm the. Tup. To pour o'er sluices pouring gushes. Flood, gush, flow, joygush, tupthrob. Now! Language of love. ... ray of hope is... Beaming. Lydia for Lidwell squeak scarcely hear so ladylike the muse unsqueaked a ray of hopk. Martha it is. Coincidence. Just going to write. Lionel's song. Lovely name you have. Can't write.
"Well, in that case, Talma, I shall ask for your influence." "Granted," said Talma, laughing; "it only remains to ask how it can serve you." "Get me sent back to Italy; Barras would not let me go." "The deuce!" said Talma; "don't you know the song, general, 'We won't go back to the woods when the laurels are clipped'?" "Oh!
Perhaps in my sleep I will say them again, and you will be there to answer. In the morning I shall write out for you to-day's clover song. The next letter which I copied was one written five years after the first; it is not so much a letter as an allegory, and so beautiful, so weird, that we wondered Esther did not set it to tune as a poem.
"You've got to go to bed," she cried, clapping her hands. "You've got to go to bed. You've got to go to bed. You've " "All right," I said coldly. "Don't make a song about it." It was ten minutes past six. I generally go to bed at eleven-thirty. It would be the longest night I had had for years. I sighed and prepared to go. "You needn't go till half-past," said Betty kindly.
This King Robin and his mate and their four baby robins were all the robins that there were to be found in all the deep, dark woods. Every morning when the gray light in the east glowed through the woods, King Robin sang a song, and every evening when the sun was about to sink behind the hills of the west, King Robin sang another song.
All the pipes and tabors in the village sounded, and shouts of laughter and of song were raised as the glad procession marched along. They sang Sometimes the most comely maiden in the village was chosen as Harvest Queen, and placed upon her throne at the top of the sheaves in the hock-cart as it was drawn homewards to the farm.
She's happy to-night, at Fontenoy, because she's coming home to you to-morrow. That I should have lived to say such a thing of Henry Churchill's daughter! When I rode away to-night, she was singing." He burst into spasmodic and grating laughter. "It was that song of Lovelace's! By God, sir, she must have had you in mind. "I could not love thee, dear, so much, Loved I not honour more.
She played over every favourite song that she had been used to play to Willoughby, every air in which their voices had been oftenest joined, and sat at the instrument gazing on every line of music that he had written out for her, till her heart was so heavy that no farther sadness could be gained; and this nourishment of grief was every day applied.
"I know how to tell Leo that I am here," Nina said, simply; and she went to the piano and opened it. Then, with the most exquisite softness, she began to play some familiar Neapolitan airs slowly and gently, so that they must have sounded in the sick-chamber like mere echoes of song coming from across wide waters. And would he not understand that it was Nina who was speaking to him; that she was only a few yards from him; and not the ghostly Nina who had so often come to the sick-room door and remained there strangely silent, but the wilful, gentle, capricious, warm-hearted cianciosella who had kissed his hand but a little while ago, and wept over it, amid her bitter sobs. These were love-songs for the most part that she was playing; but that was neither here nor there; the soft, rippling notes were more like the sound of a trickling waterfall in some still summer solitude. "Cannetella, oje Cannetè!" "Chello che tu me dice, Nenna, non boglio f
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