A Knot of Dreamers

Zenobia bade us welcome, in a fine, frank, mellow voice, and gave each
of us her hand, which was very soft and warm. She had something
appropriate, I recollect, to say to every individual; and what she said
to myself was this:--"I have long wished to know you, Mr. Coverdale,
and to thank you for your beautiful poetry, some of which I have
learned by heart; or rather it has stolen into my memory, without my
exercising any choice or volition about the matter. Of course--permit
me to say you do not think of relinquishing an occupation in which you
have done yourself so much credit. I would almost rather give you up
as an associate, than that the world should lose one of its true poets!"

"Ah, no; there will not be the slightest danger of that, especially
after this inestimable praise from Zenobia," said I, smiling, and
blushing, no doubt, with excess of pleasure. "I hope, on the contrary,
now to produce something that shall really deserve to be called
poetry,--true, strong, natural, and sweet, as is the life which we are
going to lead,--something that shall have the notes of wild birds
twittering through it, or a strain like the wind anthems in the woods,
as the case may be."

"Is it irksome to you to hear your own verses sung?" asked Zenobia,
with a gracious smile. "If so, I am very sorry, for you will certainly
hear me singing them sometimes, in the summer evenings."