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...