{"id":4050,"date":"2014-03-09T13:37:10","date_gmt":"2014-03-09T11:37:10","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.magdalenabiela.com\/?p=4050"},"modified":"2014-03-09T13:38:16","modified_gmt":"2014-03-09T11:38:16","slug":"an-echo","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.magdalenabiela.com\/?p=4050","title":{"rendered":"An Echo"},"content":{"rendered":"

\"Whispers\"<\/a><\/h2>\n

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An Echo<\/strong><\/p>\n

Never sleeping, still awake,
Pleasing most when most I speak;
The delight of old and young,
Though I speak without a tongue.
Nought but one thing can confound me,
Many voices joining round me;
Then I fret, and rave, and gabble,
Like the labourers of Babel.
Now I am a dog, or cow,
I can bark, or I can low;
I can bleat, or I can sing,
Like the warblers of the spring.
Let the lovesick bard complain,
And I mourn the cruel pain;
Let the happy swain rejoice,
And I join my helping voice:
Both are welcome, grief or joy,
I with either sport and toy.
Though a lady, I am stout,
Drums and trumpets bring me out:
Then I clash, and roar, and rattle,
Join in all the din of battle.
Jove, with all his loudest thunder,
When I’m vext, can’t keep me under;
Yet so tender is my ear,
That the lowest voice I fear;
Much I dread the courtier’s fate,
When his merit’s out of date,
For I hate a silent breath,
And a whisper is my death.<\/p>\n

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Jonathan Swift<\/blockquote><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

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