Silence, Thora, is so heavy, like a load upon the breast;
Sooth, I think thou hast bewitched me; I can find no peace nor rest.”
Thora half-way stayed her weeping, and the moon,[984] which peeped askance
From behind her cloud, revealed the tearful brightness of her glance.
“Oh! thou wouldst not love me,”[985] sobbed she, “if thou knew’st how bad I am—
Once—I hung—a great, live lobster—on the tail of Hans, our ram!”
Scarce I know how he consoled her; but ere long her tears were dried,
And ’twas rumored in the parish—though again it was denied—[986]
That while all the moon was hidden—[987] all except the golden tips—[988]
There was heard a sound mysterious, as of softly-meeting lips.