Chantecler
[In a smothered voice.] Be still!
The Blackbird
Neat, the little roof which must be gilded! Complete, the ladder for the Motes!
Chantecler
[In a spasm of pain.] Be still!
The Blackbird
And the access of modesty, a sweet little final touch! I kiss my hand to you! Oh, he knows how—no mistake he knows—
Chantecler
[Constraining himself, in a curt voice.] The Dawn? Certainly, I know her. I think I may claim that honor!
The Blackbird
You precious fakir! Don’t you consider you have succeeded?
Chantecler
In bringing on the day? Yes, certainly, I have succeeded admirably, in this case.
The Blackbird
Oh, you do it so well! How awfully well he does it!
Chantecler
Making the light? Of course, I have done it so often! I am used to it. The Sun obeys me.
The Blackbird
So, worthy Joshua! You feel the dawn coming, and then you crow! For lightness of touch and richness of invention, give us a lyric poet!