"Scoop, young Jesus, for her eyes
Wood-brown pools of Paradise."
He said it gently, looking into her eyes. She was startled for a moment. "You know it, then?" she said.
"Yes, I thought of it when you told me you had been named from a beautiful poem. But I couldn't say it then. I didn't know you well enough."
"Have you said it since? Do you know it all?"
"I read it when I got home yesterday. I know it all now."
"Say it to me."
He said it right through, slowly, and softly, dwelling on the name Viola—Viola—with many gradations of his flexible voice, and she thought she had never heard anything more beautiful than the way he uttered it. Sometimes her eyes rested on the waters of the pool, but more often on him, but his were on her all the time:
THE MAKING OF VIOLA
I
The Father of Heaven