Whether you're studying, working, or just trying to stay warm this week, take a moment to appreciate this view of the inner workings of this positively Yeatsian music box:
I admit it: I burst out laughing at the unexpected closure of the box. Poor little bird! (Yet he rose again, phoenix-like, to sing once more.)
From the collection of the Musical Instrument Museum. Thanks to my friend mdvlst for the link.
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Behold her, single in the field,
Yon solitary Highland Lass!
Reaping and singing by herself;
Stop here, or gently pass!
Alone she cuts and binds the grain,
And sings a melancholy strain;
O listen! for the Vale profound
Is overflowing with the sound.
No Nightingale did ever chaunt
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