Yes, though we have eight months' arrears of talk to make up, though it seemed to me before he came that in a whole long life there would scarce be time for all the things I had to say to him, yet, now that we are reunited, we are stalking dumbly along through the withered white grass, pallid from the winter storms.

Certainly, we neither of us could say any thing so well worth hearing as what the lark, in his most loud and godly joy, is telling us from on high.

Perhaps it is the knowledge of this that ties our tongues.
The sun shines on our heads.

He has not much power yet, but great good-will.

And the air is almost as gentle as June.