Lisetta.
Aye, tell me not. On winter nights I lay
Hearing the tree limbs rattle there like hail,
And from the corner eaves the dropping rain
Like big dogs lapping all about—and he
Spoke not to me. He sat beside his taper
But never a line wrote down. Once I had words,
Bright dreams, that shone through him, the same fire shone
Through both, his songs were mine!
Pia.
Yes, thine—rest thee, rest thee!
Lisetta.
But more his, Pia, more his!
Pia.
Aye, his. Wilt thou not eat the broth?
Lisetta.
Not now, good Pia, 'tis not for food I die.
'Tis not for food.
Pia.
Yet thou must eat.
Lisetta.
Wilt thou not read one song of these to me?
Pia.
Close then thine eyes and rest.
[Lisetta closes her eyes. A shepherd's pipe far-off and faint begins to play; from this on to the end of the play you can hear the shepherd's pipe. Pia takes up at random a sheet of the manuscripts. She sighs a great sigh, and begins to mimic Lisetta's voice.]
The Ballad of the Running Water