They heard words
distinctly, though from far away, rising, falling, floating across the
lawn as though some one as yet invisible were singing to himself.
For it was the voice of a man, and it certainly was a song. Moreover,
without being able to explain it exactly, they felt that it was just
the kind of singing that belonged to the kind of day: it was right and
natural, a fresh and windy sound in the careless notes, almost as
though it was a bird that sang. So exquisite was it, indeed, that they
listened spellbound without moving, standing hand in hand beneath the
dark bushes. And Uncle Felix evidently heard it too, for he turned his
head; instead of examining the tree-tops he peered into the rose trees
just behind him, both hands held to his ears to catch the happy song.
There was both joy and laughter in the very sound of it:
My secret's in the wind and open sky;
There is no longer any Time--to lose;
The world is young with laughter; we can fly
Among the imprisoned hours as we choose.
The rushing minutes pause; an unused day
Breaks into dawn and cheats the tired sun.
The birds are singing.
Pages:
296
297
298
299
300
301
302
303
304
305
306
307
308
309
310
311
312
313
314
315
316
317
318
319
320