Sweet song, sweet song, it is she on the porch, it is she at the door, with an off-key ping-Bong, with a creaky Ding-tonk at the sad buzzer-bell, the stale, dwindling bell with its call of a shrill, throttled quail, yet still so damn sweet that it makes my teeth ache, that it swells out my soul as a bronze temple gong that starts the small deer in the rushes and rocks of the echoing hills. A breath’s great hour of pause and then once again like electric frizz its hard put bing-Bzzz and concluding bzzz-Pffft, the last, throat-stuck, dying note part rusted, half choked to spring this cushion-sunk sot to horse and to foot.