Books: The Spoken Word

Put the record on. Turn the volume up. Close the door. Listen.

Now as I was young and easy under the

apple boughs About the lilting house and happy as

the grass was green . . . And green and golden, I was huntsman

and herdsman, the calves Sang to my horn, the foxes on the hills

barked clear and cold,

And the sabbath rang slowly In the pebbles of the holy streams . . .

The Sabbath rings out grandly on the record, as if tolled by some huge bronze tongue within a spire, and the room fills with...

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