"Mae's right," said Eric,
a trifle grandly, "only, to change the figure of speech for one better
fitted for the occasion, they may satiate, though they never starve you.
But they are wonderfully fine, sometimes. O, bother, I never can
quote, but there is something about 'I will go back to the great sweet
mother."'
"Or this," suggested Mae,
"'And to me thou art matchless and fair
As the tawny sweet twilight, with blended
Sunlight and red stars in her hair.'"
"I love my masters," continued this young enthusiast, "because they
fling all rules aside, and cry out as they choose. It is their very
heart's blood and the lusty wine of life that they give you, not just
a scrap of 'rosemary for remembrance' and a soothing herb-tea made
from the flowers of fancy they have culled from those much travestied,
abominable fields of thought."
"And this from a lover of Wordsworth, who holds the 'Daffodils' and
'Lucy' as her chief jewels, and quotes the 'Immortality' perpetually!"
cried Eric.
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