But list; what’s this? A spirit in the tree,—a talking spirit, too! I’ll listen; ’tis my privilege in this orchard. Go on, sweet spirit, I’m listening. [Pauses.] Nay, go on, my time is brief; or if thou’dst rather, I’ll not overhear.
Ideal.
Nay, hear, sweet maid; I’m fated in this tree to dwell, and ne’er before so spoke my heart unto a maid.
Violet.
Canst thou not speak in rhymes? Why, spirits should be poets too; or is the tree’s rind too hard? I do pity thee for a poor spirit.
Ideal.
Nay, hear me. When the tree is in its blossom, then rhymes come fleetest; when the tree is in its fruitage, then rhymes come sweetest. Thou once, on such a time, didst sit beneath these ripening boughs, in sweetest reverie wrapt, and I, while musing on thy beauty and the gentle spirit within thee, did weave these rhymes.
Violet.
I well remember it; and if thou art a truthful spirit I will listen to thy rhymes. Thou mayst begin.
Ideal.