and—
‘A world of leafage, murmurous and a-twinkle
The green, delicious, plentitude of June.’
And these lines seem to me full of music.
‘O, Philomela fair, O, take some gladness,
That here is juster cause for plaintful sadness.
Thine earth now springs, mine fadeth.
Thy thorn without, my thorn my heart invadeth.”
“These are only a few of the many fragments I have in my memory.”
“But poetry is nearly always so sad,” said Bimbo. “I like things with jokes in them.”