SHE became so depressed that I really believe, when she sat in her garden on Midsummer Eve, she never observed that far down on the right a little dark lantern was showing a light, nor heard the first magical whisper begin of a voice half an opal and half violin, nor felt how the air grew as sweet as the hush between the two thrills in the song of a thrush. The little white house grew dimmer, and seemed not a house but a little white thought she had dreamed, and each little tree was a little green tale that was sung in her dream by a nightingale -- the tale that still ends where the song had begun, East of the Moon, and West of the Sun. |