"The storm that wrecks the winter sky,
No more disturbs their deep repose,
Than summer evening's latest sigh
That shuts the rose."
The two last lines lingered pleasantly in his fancy and he murmured to
himself again, in low tones--
"Than summer evening's latest sigh
That shuts the rose."
"Oh hush, hush, Eric!" said Wildney, laying his hand upon his friend's
lips; "don't let's spoil to-night by forebodings."
It seemed, indeed, a shame to do so, for it was almost an awful thing to
be breathing the splendor of the transparent air, as the sun broadened
and fell, and a faint violet glow floated over soft meadow and silver
stream. One might have fancied that the last rays of sunshine loved to
linger over Eric's face, now flushed with a hectic tinge of pleasure,
and to light up sudden glories in his bright hair, which the wind just
fanned off his forehead as he leaned back and inhaled the luxury of
evening perfume, which the flowers of the garden poured on the gentle
breeze.
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