for if you could tell me all you feel, I
think you would not look into my eyes so lovingly. Words are nothing.
Listen to the nightingale yonder! She never had the gift of speech and
yet I think I can understand her."

"Will you confide her secret to me? I should like to know what Gulgul,
as we Persians call the nightingale, has to talk about to her mate in
the rose-bush. May you betray her secret?"

"I will whisper it softly. Philomel sings to her mate 'I love thee,' and
he answers, (don't you hear him?), 'Itys, ito, itys.'"

"And what does that mean, 'Ito, ito?'"

"I accept it."

"And Itys?"

"Oh, that must be explained, to be rightly understood. Itys is a circle;
and a circle, I was always taught, is the symbol of eternity, having
neither beginning nor end; so the nightingale sings, 'I accept it for
eternity.'"

"And if I say to you, 'I love thee?'"

"Then I shall answer gladly, like the sweet nightingale, 'I accept it
for to-day, to-morrow, for all eternity!'"

"What a wonderful night it is! everything so still and silent; I do not
even hear the nightingale now; she is sitting in the acacia-tree among
the bunches of sweet blossoms. I can see the tops of the palm-trees
in the Nile, and the moon's reflection between them, glistening like a
white swan."

"Yes, her rays are over every living thing like silver fetters, and the
whole world lies motionless beneath them like a captive woman. Happy as
I feel now, yet I could not even laugh, and still less speak in a loud
voice."

"Then whisper, or sing!"

"Yes, that is the best. Give me a lyre. Thank you. Now I will lean my
head on your breast, and sing you a little, quiet, peaceful song. It was
written by Alkman, the Lydian, who lived in Sparta, in praise of
night and her stillness. You must listen though, for this low, sweet
slumber-song must only leave the lips like a gentle wind. Do not kiss me
any more, please, till I have finished; then I will ask you to thank me
with a kiss:

"Now o'er the drowsy earth still night prevails,
Calm sleep the mountain tops and shady vales,
The rugged cliffs and hollow glens;

The wild beasts slumber in their dens;
The cattle on the bill. Deep in the sea
The countless finny race and monster brood
Tranquil repose. Even the busy bee
Forgets her daily toil. The silent wood
No more with noisy hum of insect rings;
And all the feathered tribe, by gentle sleep subdued,