Like Snow upon the Desert’s dusty Face
Lighting its little Hour or two—is gone.”
Suddenly the voice rose ringing like a trumpet, a great chord crashed out:
“Waste not your Hour!”
The deep octaves followed. Then she passed into modulating phrases and began to sing again.
“Her voice is nearly as beautiful as she is,” thought Jane, “but somehow—she shakes one.”
“Ah Love, could you and I with Fate conspire
To grasp this sorry Scheme of Things entire,
Would we not shatter it to bits, and then
Re-mould it nearer to the Heart’s Desire?”