On every flower that shuts its sweet eyes
In timely sleep. Let thy west wind sleep on
The lake; speak silence with thy glimmering eyes,
And wash the dusk with silver. Soon, full soon,
Dost thou withdraw; then the wolf rages wide,
And the lion glares through the dun forest.
The fleeces of our flock are covered with
Thy sacred dew; Protect them with thine influence.”
Then was a brief silence; the woods were still at the moment, the two friends speechless and there was only the light lapping of the waters against the shore.
“Polly O’Neill Burton, long ago I was told that Sara Bernhardt could make men and women shed tears simply by reciting the multiplication table or the alphabet. I believe you can accomplish the self-same result. I presume that you feel you have grown stale with these years of abandoning your art, yet I sincerely believe that when you return to the stage you will be the greater artist. No human being with your temperament, Polly, can have passed through the emotional experiences of the years in Europe and not be inspired by them. I am sorry for your present disappointment, sorry you must wait another year to produce the new play, yet when the time arrives I shall be prouder of you than ever!”