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Silly littleboy, with blood on his boots.
Let music sound And the free air of
Heaven waft you to your slumber!
But the cradle wasby the bounty of Heaven
washed ashore. The plot was only there to beget emotion. To which the other
voice answered: Dyou believe what thepapers say? Arms akimbo,he stood in front
of his country gentlemans library.
How, hewondered, had she ever borne
children?
And Queen Mary and the Dukeof Windsor on the south coast?
Scattered,
shattered, hither thither summoned by thebell.
A long line of villagers in
sacking were passing inand out of the trees behind her. That was in milords
time, twenty yearssince.
Excited by the company they were flitting from rafter
to rafter. But she said nothing, and they stood there holding theircups,
remembering the play. And my daughter, just back from Rome, shesays the common
people, in the cafés, hate Dictators. But what wishshould I drop into the
well?
Hercheeks had been powdered; her colour glowed smooth and
clearunderneath.
Excited by the company they were flitting from rafter to
rafter.
They had left the greenhouse door open, and now music came
throughit.
Manresa and of Lucy, off he strolled too.
For all are dancing,
retreating and advancing, The moth and the dragon fly.
The wind howls and the
bitternshrieks, she replied.
Swallows, said Lucy, holding her cup, looking at
the birds.
There was nothing in her to weight a man like Giles tothe earth.
Dont bother about the plot: the plots nothing.
And, cutting short her words,the
megaphone announced in plain English: An interval. Go onsitting, go on sitting,
she pressed him down again.
Reason surveyed this domestic scene from herlofty
eminence unmoved.
No longer fears the unwary wanderer the poisonedsnake. Otter
of the End House, someone murmured.
Manresa half-way down the Barn had gulped
her cup of tea.
And in the helmet, yellow bees their honey make. She spoke too
low at first; all they heard was. Herbert Winthrop asked, raisingher
lorgnettes.
Thisdry summer the path was hard as brick across the
fields.
Digging and delving, ploughing and sowing they were singing, butthe
wind blew their words away.
Mice slid in andout of holes or stood upright,
nibbling.
The plot was only there to beget emotion.
Dispersed are we, the music
wailed; dispersed are we. My old mother, whos over eighty, canremember
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