For the young, immortality must seem promising, even wonderful! The grass is always greener on the other side. How long wilt thou forget me, O Lord? for ever? How long wilt thou hide thy face from me? She came upon the Song of Songs—which had been pasted down in the Enschede Bible—the burning litany of love; and from time to time she intoned some verse of tender lyric beauty. But Jonathan, fixing a terrible look upon him, cried. You mustn't go by what you read so much as by what you see and hear. “We don’t let to ladies,” they said. But before the Grieg concerto was done, she knew that she was free. Stay me with flagons, comfort me with apples, for I am sick of love.
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