Though now this grained face of mine be hid In sap-consuming winter's drizzled snow, And all the conduits of my blood froze up, Yet hath my night of life some memory, My wasting lamps some fading glimmer left, My dull deaf ears a little use to hear.
The genius of a folk melody or story is not the feeling that it's original but quite the opposite - the feeling that it has existed all along.