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Updated: June 14, 2025
Madame was not very busy with her eyes, and the jeweled miniature which she held in her hand seemed no longer to attract her. The odor of rose and heliotrope pervaded the gently stirring air. From the convent garden came the melting lilt of the golden oriole. By and by madame's gaze returned to the miniature. For a brief space poppies burned in her cheeks and the seed smoldered in her eyes.
They seem made to be sung, and trip off the tongue with a lilt and grace which are irresistible. This hymn is interesting as shewing how completely Chaitanya is by his followers invested with the attributes of, and identified with, K.rish.na; it has no other special merits; nor anything specially interesting from a philological point of view as it is nearly all Sansk.rit.
And she dropped in her chair. "A lovely little tune," said Aaron. "Haven't you got the music?" She rose, not answering, and found him a little book. "What do the words mean?" he asked her. She told him. And then he took his flute. "You don't mind if I play it, do you?" he said. So he played the tune. It was so simple. And he seemed to catch the lilt and the timbre of her voice.
You may find just a lyric here, a rondel there, set to the lilt of a phrase in an idle hour and sung in a passing moment to send a tired heart asleep. But that is all. Yet they are the women upon whom the world has spent six thousand years in the making; they are the women at whose breasts are fed the sons of men.
They went by and returned, gathered about her, separated, melted away as people do in our musings. Her eyes were fixed on the low roof of the cave. The lilt of the water seemed to rock her soul in a cradle. "Madre Ruffo! Madre Ruffo!" The words were in her mind like a refrain. And then the oddity, the promiscuity of life struck her.
"I'll stay," she repeated after him in a childishly small voice. "You you see, I know what it is now to be alone, even just for a week or two. I think I'll stay, please!" There had been a bit of a teasing lilt in her half smothered words. It disappeared now. "I I'd be pretty lonesome, all the rest of my life man if I didn't!"
The cheery song of a sailor who, unseen, at the masthead, sings to the winds which are blowing him away from his wild Irish sweetheart, floats down to us. It has a refreshing and buoyant lilt, this song, with something of the sea breeze in it, and yet something, as it is sung, which emphasizes the loneliness of the singer:
The poet had written his Lucretius, and, to please Sir George Grove, wrote The Song of the Wrens, for music. Tennyson had not that positive aversion to music which marked Dr Johnson, Victor Hugo, Theophile Gautier, and some other poets. Nay, he liked Beethoven, which places him higher in the musical scale than Scott, who did not rise above a Border lilt or a Jacobite ditty.
Yet ere it had descended a score of feet the safety-clutch acted and, with a third tremendous jar, shaking the building, the car halted. Hickey and Maitland were then some five floors below. "Stop 'er at Nineteen," ordered the detective. There was a lilt of exultancy in his voice. "We got him now, all right, all right. He'll try to get down by There!"
Aladdin's finger was always on the pulse of his audience, and he began with relish: Oh, shut and dark her window is In the dark house on the hill, But I have come up through the lilac walk To the lilt of the whippoorwill, With the old years tugging at my hands And my heart which is her heart still.
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