“Put your ear to the ground, and if you are not deaf you will hear the maddening rush of the brook and the low murmuring of the Owenacurra and the heart of the world itself beating,” said Micus.
“I will, then,” said Padna, as he put his ear to the ground.
“Well,” said Micus, “do you hear anything?”
“I hear the pulse of the earth.”
“Isn’t it wonderful?”
“’Tis wonderful, surely.”
“I knew you’d like it.”
“Sure ’tis myself always loves to walk alone by the seashore when the world does be sleeping, and listen to the melancholy cry of the sea lark and the curlew, and the soft splash of the waves against the boulders on the beach on a dark night without any light at all, except maybe the flash from the lightship, or the glow from the binnacle lamp of some passing vessel, and she sailing over the seas with a cargo of groundsel for the Emperor of Japan’s linnets. There’s an eeriness about the night that creates an atmosphere of poetry and mystery, the like of which we never experience in the most glorious sunshine, even when we might be in love itself, and listening to the silvery speech of the most beautiful woman in all the land,” said Padna.
“When a man is listening to the silvery speech of some lovely woman, he never knows how expensive ’tis going to be for him afterwards.”
“The silvery speech of women is a magnificent thing, but their golden silence is a more magnificent thing still.”