In the autumn afternoons, when the shadows are lengthening, he sings sadness into your heart.

If you are joyful shut your ears against him, for you may keep peace, but never joy, while he is singing.

He knows all about it, "love's labor lost," the gray face of young Love dead, the hard-wrought grave in the live rock where he is buried.

And he tells of it again and again and again, as if Love's sharp sword had indeed reddened his little breast, until the heart aches to hear him.

But he tells also that consolation is folded not in forgetfulness, but in remembrance.