'So I was thinking,' murmured the Rat, dreamful and languid.
'Dance-music--the lilting sort that runs on without a stop--but with
words in it, too--it passes into words and out of them again--I catch
them at intervals--then it is dance-music once more, and then nothing
but the reeds' soft thin whispering.'
'You hear better than I,' said the Mole sadly. 'I cannot catch the
words.'
'Let me try and give you them,' said the Rat softly, his eyes still
closed. 'Now it is turning into words again--faint but clear--Lest
the awe should dwell--And turn your frolic to fret--You shall look on
my power at the helping hour--But then you shall forget! Now the
reeds take it up--forget, forget, they sigh, and it dies away in a
rustle and a whisper. Then the voice returns--
'Lest limbs be reddened and rent--I spring the trap that is set--As I
loose the snare you may glimpse me there--For surely you shall forget!
Row nearer, Mole, nearer to the reeds! It is hard to catch, and grows
each minute fainter.
'Helper and healer, I cheer--Small waifs in the woodland wet--Strays I
find in it, wounds I bind in it--Bidding them all forget! Nearer,
Mole, nearer! No, it is no good; the song has died away into
reed-talk.
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