“Somewhere in the garden a nightingale was singing, and a little breeze touched her hair and stirred the leaves overhead. All the different bells of the city chimed, once each, this one high, that one low, some close by, others farther off, one cracked and peevish, another grave and sonorous, but agreeing in all their different voices on what the time was, even if some of them got to it a little more slowly than others. In that other Oxford where she and Will had kissed good-bye, the bells would be chiming, too, and a nightingale would be singing, and a little breeze would be stirring the leaves in the Botanic Garden...”

“Safe?” Her voice was small, timid and delicate. But beautiful. The one word chimed like little bells. Her first word spoken to me.”

“She would fain have caught at the skirts of that departing time, and prayed it to return, and give her back what she had too little valued while it was yet in her possession. What a vain show Life seemed! How unsubstantial, and flickering, and flitting! It was as if from some aerial belfry, high up above the stir and jar of the earth, there was a bell continually tolling, ‘All are shadows!—all are passing!—all is past!”

“Came the visions of icy beauty,from the land of death where they dwell.Pursuing their prize and grisly duty,came the thieves of the charm and spell.The bells chimed thrice, and death came a-calling. Alluring of shape though seldom seen,they traveled the breeze on a spark.some fed twigs to their newborn queen,while others invaded the dark.the bells chimed thrice, and death came a-calling.some they called and others they kissedas they traveled on river and wave.with resolve they came and did insist:every one touched to a grave.the bells chimed thrice, and death came a-calling.roving to hunt and gathering to dance,they practiced their dark desiresby casting a hex and a beautiful trance,before feeding the queen's new fires.the bells chimed thrice, and death came a-calling.till he parted the fallsand the bells chimed thrice,till he issued the callsand demanded the price.the bells chimed thrice and death met the mountain.they charmed and embracedand they tried to extollbut he bade them in graceand demanded a soul.the bells fell silent and the mountain slew them all.and the mountain entombed them all.”

“Somewhere there are gardens where peacocks sing like nightingales, somewhere there are caravans of separated lovers traveling to meet each other; there are ruby fires on distant mountains, and blue comets that come in spring like sapphires in the black sky. If this is not so, meet me in the shameful yard, and we will plant a gallows tree, and swing like sad pendulums, never once touching.”

“Far away beyond the pine-woods,' he answered, in a low dreamy voice, 'there is a little garden. There the grass grows long and deep, there are the great white stars of the hemlock flower, there the nightingale sings all night long. All night long he sings, and the cold, crystal moon looks down, and the yew-tree spreads out its giant arms over the sleepers.”