Poor
Sinfi! Her influence will not to-day be able to cajole my eyes into
accepting her superstitious visions as their own.'
But as I spoke a sound fell, not upon my ears alone, but upon every
nerve of my body, the sound of a voice singing, a voice that was not
Sinfi's, but another's,
'I met in a glade a lone little maid,
At the foot of y Wyddfa the white;
Oh, lissom her feet as the mountain hind,
And darker her hair than the night;
Her cheek was like the mountain rose,
But fairer far to see.
As driving along her sheep with a song,
Down from the hills came she.'
It was the same voice that I heard singing the same song on Raxton
Sands. It was the same voice that I heard singing the same song in
the London streets--Winnie's!
And then there appeared in the eastern cleft of the gorge on the
other side of the llyn, illuminated as by a rosy steam, Winnie! Amid
the opalescent vapours gleaming round the llyn, with eyes now
shimmering as through a veil--now flashing like sapphires in the
sun--there she stood gazing through the film, her eyes expressing a
surprise and a wonder as great as my own.
Pages:
656
657
658
659
660
661
662
663
664
665
666
667
668
669
670
671
672
673
674
675
676
677
678
679
680