“Tis a morning pure and sweet,And a dewy splendour fallsOn the little flower that clingsTo the turrets and the walls;'Tis a morning pure and sweet,And the light and shadow fleet;She is walking in the meadow,And the woodland echo rings;In a moment we shall meet;She is singing in the meadow,And the rivulet at her feetRipples on in light and shadowTo the ballad that she sings.”

“Say she rail; why, I'll tell her plainShe sings as sweetly as a nightingale.Say that she frown; I'll say she looks as clearAs morning roses newly wash'd with dew.Say she be mute and will not speak a word;Then I'll commend her volubility,and say she uttereth piercing eloquence.”

“Tis the gift to be gentle, ’tis the gift to be fair,’Tis the gift to wake and breathe the morning air,To walk every day in the path that we choose,Is the gift that we pray we will never never lose.”

“Keda,' she said to herself,' Keda, this is tragedy.' But as her words hung emptily in the morning air, she clenched her hands for she could feel no anguish and the bright bird that had filled her breast was still singing... was still singing.”

“Books! tis a dull and endless strife:Come, hear the woodland linnet,How sweet his music! on my life,There's more of wisdom in it.”

“Maybe she was enjoying a moment in her life, a sliver of light, a flash memory of one of her kids, something sweet and approaching reality.”