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Updated: May 8, 2025
A duodene of birdnotes chirruped bright treble answer under sensitive hands. Brightly the keys, all twinkling, linked, all harpsichording, called to a voice to sing the strain of dewy morn, of youth, of love's leavetaking, life's, love's morn. The dewdrops pearl... Lenehan's lips over the counter lisped a low whistle of decoy. But look this way, he said, rose of Castile.
Somehow the place reminded me of Una Habberton, a sanctuary for quiet thoughts; the pools below me, her eyes reflecting the clear heavens; the intonation of the rill, her voice; the cheerful birdnotes, her joy of life; the dignity of the tall trees, her sanity.
Would you believe it? Daily and nightly there come scraps of poetry humming in my intellectual ear some as airy as birdnotes, and some as delicately neat as parlor-music, and a few as grand as organ- peals that seem just such verses as those departed poets would have written had not an inexorable destiny snatched them from their inkstands.
Far away between the green-grey trunks of the trees, the sea glinted like a silver ribbon. Everything was very still, with the stillness set deep in peace of one who loves and awaits in awe love's next word. The earth lay in the sunshine, and listened for the whisper of spring. Faint birdnotes threaded the high windless spaces near the tree-tops. "Look!" said Magdalen, "the first crocus."
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