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Updated: May 4, 2025
There is such confusion in the songs of the birds, that I can hardly select the different notes, so as to name their owners. There is a great deal of bird-singing that is simply what a weaver would call "filling."
From San Paolo we were going to another shrine, more hallowed to our literary sense, and we drove through the sweet morning sunshine and bird-singing, past pale-pink clouds of almond bloom on the garden slopes, with snowy heights far beyond, to the simple graveyard where Keats and Shelley lie.
One is also interested to see how spring is going to turn out. A day of sun, of delusive bird-singing, sight of the mellow earth, all these begin to beget confidence. The night, even, has been warm. But what is this in the morning journal, at breakfast? "An area of low pressure is moving from the Tortugas north." You shudder. What is this Low Pressure itself, it?
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