Labors as endeared may engross our lost. Buds of other days quivered in remembrance. Hearts of other days lent their solemn charm.
Life of flowers lain in flowers - what a home of dew! And the bough of ivy; was it as you said? Shall I plant it softly?
There were little feet, white as alabaster.
Dare I chill them with the soil?
Nature is our eldest mother, she will do no harm.
Let the phantom love that enrolls the sparrow shield you softer than a child.