days, and in that land where daylight lasts a long, glad while I shall 
hold them still. I need not choose and will not. The hands are mine; 
say that, my heart, and hold thy peace. 
So the four seasons, I would sing a madrigal for each. Let The- 
ocritus or some good woodsman, who loves to brush the dew from the 
stooping grasses of the early morning, let him sing a roundel for each 
season as it comes; and mind you, singer, spare no pains, sing sweetly 
and shame the mockingbird when he sings his ‘dropping song,’ what 
time he wooes and tosses wildly like a jet of salt sea spray to the rapture 
of his own music. 
“Sing me the song again! 
The wild, sweet notes that thrill my heart with bliss: 
Quick throbbing now with passionate disdain, 
Now falling soft as evening breeze's kiss. 
Sing me the song again ! 
Repeat the wondrous tune! 
The full broad glory of the perfect moon, 
The pearly glimmer of the clustering leaves, 
The ghostly shadows of tke night's high noon, 
My listening soul perceives. 
Repeat the wondrous tune! 
—KATE HILLIARD. 
