"I love sad things," she said, sympathetically.
"Oh yes, you like 'em blubbery. I don't. That's why I hate poetry. It's all sobbing and groaning, and 'Oh!' and 'Alas!' or else the silly scenery."
"Oh, not all," said Ethan.
"Well, most of it is. Now, see! I'll shut the book and open it at random:
"'O star, of which I lost have all the light,
With hertë sore well ought I to bewail,
That ever dark in torment, night by night,
Towards my death with wind in stern I sail.'
That's Mr. Chaucer. Now try again:
"'My days are in the yellow leaf;