I think of long, sweet afternoons, when I may lie and listen to the distant sea, Or hear the breezes in the reeds that sigh, Or insect voices chirping shrill and dry, In fields that wait for me.
The late afternoon sky bloomed in the window for a moment like the blue honey of the Mediterranean—then the shrill voice of Mrs. McKee called me back into the room.
There was barely a face to be seen in the school that didn't look worried and tense, and any laughter that rang through the corridors sounded shrill and unnatural and was quickly stifled.