Trastevera, like one too deep in thought to rise to the surface of words, smiled back. Not finding himself in disfavor, Ravenutzi ventured a little more to lure her from disturbing meditation. He turned upon his side, leaning on his elbow, and began to sing. His voice was mellow and of a carrying quality, with a tang in it like the taste of the honey-comb in wild honey. Some half-governed energy of passion kept it under his breath as the warm earth was held under the smother of the fog. It was a song of the Far-Folk, I know, for there were some words in it not common to the Outliers, but it had their method of carrying the mood in the movement and the mind of the singer, rather than in the words.
“‘Oh, a long time.’
it said,
‘Have I been gathering lilies in the dawn-dim woodland.
‘Oh, long—long!’”
and ran on into a sound like the indrawing of breath before tears, and began again:
“Scented and sweet is the house
And the door swings outward,
It is made fair with lilies:
But there are no feet on the trail to the house