“But when melody wells up in thrushes’ throats, and bees buzz honeysong, and rock and river clap like hands in summer sun, then misery’s drowned in minstrelsy, and Godric’s glad in spite of all. Yet sometimes too he’s sad in spite of all, God knows, for there are other voices than the poor’s.”

“But when melody wells up in thrushes’ throats, and bees buzz honeysong, and rock and river clap like hands in summer sun, then misery’s drowned in minstrelsy, and Godric’s glad in spite of all. Yet sometimes too he’s sad in spite of all, God knows, for there are other voices than the poor’s.”

— Frederick Buechner