Ah, reader, it was like putting your ear to the gate of heaven.
And once I made a song for her, which ran like this:-- There grew twin apples high on a bough Within an orchard fair; The tree was all of gold, I vow, And the apples of silver were.
And whoso kisseth those apples high, Who kisseth once is a king, Who kisseth twice shall never die, Who kisseth thrice--oh, were it I!-- May ask for anything.
Hebe blushed, and for answer whispered something too sweet to tell.
"Dear little head sunning over with curls," were I to meet you now, what would happen?
Ah! to meet you now were too painfully to measure the remnant of my youth..