"He has no sod house,--no days afield and by the
brook. He never heard the night-song of the wind or the winter-rune of
the pine. Nothing of all these things that you love has he had."
The Fool's eyes were round with amazement. "No sod house?" But the
other was sunk into a reverie and gave no answer. The Fool stood first
on one foot, then on the other, then with his old smile he turned and
skipped away. As he returned through the night, walking, hopping, or
running, as the need came to him, he crooned to himself a song he had
once made up.
"My lips are a-tremble with a grave little song.
I care not if the wide world hear.'
Its words happened forth as I dreamed and trudged along.
I care not if the wide world hear.
"It has not worth nor weight, it is neither sweet nor strong.
I care not if the wide world hear.
For I sing it to myself when the great doubts throng
And I care not if the wide world hear."
That was all, but he hummed it with great content, beating time with
one hand; and as for the King's Favorite, for all that Preferment
rideth on the pommel of his saddle, I doubt not he never sang such a
song to himself, or took such pleasure in the singing.
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