I saw one put a hollow reed to his lips. It was a forlorn, sweet air that he played, an ancient forgotten strain learned of a shepherding woman upon the hills. The Song of Songs it was that he played: and the beating of hearts was heard, and I heard sighs, and a voice like a distant bird-song rose and fell. “Play me a song of Death,” I said. Then he who had the hollow reed at his lips smiled, and he played again the Song of Songs.
(By: Fiona MacLeod (William Sharp, 1855-1905) The Silence of Amor)