"Nora, Nora Teply." She introduced herself without waiting for the invitation. In much the same manner she took a seat and picked up his book.
"Yes, finals are upon us! Which is all the more reason to stop an enjoy the moments life offers. Which is by the way one of Byron's running ideas." She thumbed through the passages.
"Do you really not like it?" SHe sounded genuinely surprised. SHe flipped pages to one poem and laid the book open, hardly needing it to recite the passage.
"My soul is dark – Oh! quickly string The harp I yet can brook to hear; And let thy gentle fingers fling Its melting murmurs o’er mine ear. If in this heart a hope be dear, That sound shall charm it forth again: If in these eyes there lurk a tear, ‘Twill flow, and cease to burn my brain.
But bid the strain be wild and deep, Nor let thy notes of joy be first: I tell thee, minstrel, I must weep, Or else this heavy heart will burst; For it hath been by sorrow nursed, And ached in sleepless silence, long; And now ’tis doomed to know the worst, And break at once – or yield to song."
Her words carried the piece, and when she spoke there was a transportation of spirit. The longing and overwhelming emotion of the piece spoke through her tone. When she finished she looked at him, her eyes seemed a bit heavy as if laden with all that those words entailed. "Frankly I think the work is beautiful."
no subject
"Yes, finals are upon us! Which is all the more reason to stop an enjoy the moments life offers. Which is by the way one of Byron's running ideas." She thumbed through the passages.
"Do you really not like it?" SHe sounded genuinely surprised. SHe flipped pages to one poem and laid the book open, hardly needing it to recite the passage.
"My soul is dark – Oh! quickly string
The harp I yet can brook to hear;
And let thy gentle fingers fling
Its melting murmurs o’er mine ear.
If in this heart a hope be dear,
That sound shall charm it forth again:
If in these eyes there lurk a tear,
‘Twill flow, and cease to burn my brain.
But bid the strain be wild and deep,
Nor let thy notes of joy be first:
I tell thee, minstrel, I must weep,
Or else this heavy heart will burst;
For it hath been by sorrow nursed,
And ached in sleepless silence, long;
And now ’tis doomed to know the worst,
And break at once – or yield to song."
Her words carried the piece, and when she spoke there was a transportation of spirit. The longing and overwhelming emotion of the piece spoke through her tone. When she finished she looked at him, her eyes seemed a bit heavy as if laden with all that those words entailed. "Frankly I think the work is beautiful."