For I feel it is Love,
For I’m sure it is nothing but Love!”
Once more we heard Bruno’s delicate little voice alone:—
“Say whose is the skill that paints valley and hill,
Like a picture so fair to the sight?
That flecks the green meadow with sunshine and shadow,
Till the little lambs leap with delight?”
And again uprose that silvery voice, whose angelic sweetness I could hardly bear:—
“’Tis a secret untold to hearts cruel and cold,
Though ’tis sung, by the angels above,