So you do not like Ab Gwilym; what say you to old Gothe:-- 'Mist shrouds the night, and rack; Hear, in the woods, what an awful crack! Wildly the owls are flitting, Hark to the pillars splitting Of palaces verdant ever, The branches quiver and sever, The mighty stems are creaking, The poor roots breaking and shrieking, In wild mixt ruin down dashing, O'er one another they're crashing; Whilst 'midst the rocks so hoary, Whirlwinds hurry and worry.
Hear'st not, sister--' "Hark!" said Belle, "hark!" "'Hear'st not, sister, a chorus Of voices ?'" "No," said Belle, "but I hear a voice.".