"Then whisper, or sing!"

"Yes, that is the best. Give me a lyre. Thank you. Now I will lean my
head on your breast, and sing you a little, quiet, peaceful song. It was
written by Alkman, the Lydian, who lived in Sparta, in praise of night
and her stillness. You must listen though, for this low, sweet slumber-
song must only leave the lips like a gentle wind. Do not kiss me any
more, please, till I have finished; then I will ask you to thank me with
a kiss:

"Now o'er the drowsy earth still night prevails,
Calm sleep the mountain tops and shady vales,
The rugged cliffs and hollow glens;

The wild beasts slumber in their dens;
The cattle on the bill. Deep in the sea
The countless finny race and monster brood
Tranquil repose. Even the busy bee
Forgets her daily toil. The silent wood
No more with noisy hum of insect rings;
And all the feathered tribe, by gentle sleep subdued,
Roost in the glade and hang their drooping wings."
--Translation by Colonel Mure.

"Now, dearest, where is my kiss?"

"I had forgotten it in listening, just as before I forgot to listen in
kissing."