human
Gems and
gpt
Caskets and
human
Gleanings.
gpt
Music! oh, how faint, how weak, Language fades before thy spell! Why should feeling ever speak When thou canst breathe her soul so well? Friendship's balmy words may pain, Love's are e'en more false than they-- Oh! 'tis only music's strain Can sweetly soothe and not betray.
human
Those are very beautiful lines, Mr. Smythe, I observed;
gpt
Really, Mr. Bond, I do not now remember.
human
They are Moore's,
gpt
Oh yes, yes, so they are. I could give you numberless other pieces, Mr. Bond, equally fine and touching.
human
Thank you, that will do for the present, Mr. Smythe.