May was sweet that year, and it was pleasantly you’d pass the day.
Then I’d leave my pleasant studies, and the paper I had smudged with ink where I would be spending the better part of the day, and cock my ears from the sill of my father’s house, till I’d hear the sound of your voice, or of your loom when your hands moved quickly. It’s then I would set store of the quiet sky and the lanes and little places, and the sea was far away in one place and the high hills in another.
There is no tongue will tell till the judgment what I feel in myself those times.
Transcriber’s note
Minor punctuation errors have been changed without notice.