And the purple loosestrife and watercress

Whisper above her sorrowfulness.

But never again can God look down As He did of old upon country and town! In His huge heart, hidden all Space beyond, There bides the curse of Lenty Pond; The curse of the Slowworm, by Lenty willow, Who pitied the elf on her tear-wet pillow, Her pillow woven of pondweeds green Where the willow’s twigs made a leafy screen; And the purple loosestrife and watercress Whisper above her sorrowfulness.

Once more the voice paused and Wolf listened to those two persistent summer sounds, the tapping of the thrush’s beak and the indescribable contentment of the wood-pigeon.