"Can we replace the third poem for the recital?" Ilse asked.
Emily stiffened. "What's wrong with it?"
"Maybe you're not good enough," Emily said, her voice frostier than ever Aunt Ruth's.
"Oh, is that so?" Ilse slid the wrinkled piece of paper across the table. "Why don't you read it, then? The fifth line, for instance."
Emily took the poem between her fingertips and read with pathos: "The brightness blitely... blithely..."
"The brightness," Ilse said very slowly. "Blithely. Binds the air. And blinds me."
Emily stared mournfully at the poem before tossing it aside. "Very well."