"And in many different ways?"
"Why? Have you, perchance, discovered a new way, Nick?"
"Not at all. The oldest way of any, the way of Sappho and Pindar."
"O-ooh!" She clapped her hands in mock delight. "Poetry!"
"The only medium that could possibly express how lovely you are," said Nick.
"Nicholas, have you gone and composed a poem to me?"
"Composed? No. It isn't necessary, with you here beside me."
"What's that? Some very subtle compliment?"
"Not subtle, Pat. You're the poem yourself; all I need do is look at
you, listen to you, and translate."
"Neat!" applauded the girl. "Do I hear the translation?"
"You certainly do." He turned his odd amber-green eyes on her, then
bent forward to the road. He began to speak in a low voice.
"In no far country's silent ways
Shall I forget one little thing--
The soft intentness of your gaze,
The sweetness of your murmuring
Your generously tender praise,
The words just hinted by a breath--
In no far country's silent way,
Unless that country's name be Death--"He paused abruptly, and drove silently onward.
"Oh," breathed Pat. "Why don't you go on, Nick? Please."
"No. It isn't the mood for this night, Dear. Not this night, alone with
you."
"What is, then?"
"Nothing sentimental. Something lighter, something--oh, Elizabethan.
That's it."
"And what's stopping you?"
"Lack of an available idea. Or--wait. Listen a moment." He began, this
time in a tone of banter.
"When mornings, you attire yourself
For riding in the city,
You're such a lovely little elf,
Extravagantly pretty!
And when at noon you deign to wear
The habit of the town,
I cannot call to mind as fair
A symphony in brown.
Then evenings, you blithely don
A daintiness of white,

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