To Remember Love after a long sleep;
To turn again to poetry after a year in the marketplace, or to youth after resignation to drowsy and stiffening old age;
To remember what once you though life could hold, after telling over with muddied and calculating fingers what it has offered;
This is music, made after long silence.
The soul flexes its wings, and, clumsy as any fledgling, tries the air again.
I felt my way, groping back through the chords, for the passion that slept there in the harp, exploring, testing as a man tests in the dark ground which once he knew in daylight,
Whispers, small jags of sound, bunches of notes dragged sharply. The wires thrilled, catching the firelight, and the long running chords lapsed into the song.
– From Mary Stewart’s book, “The Hollow Hills”