The opening and the folding flowers, that laugh to the summer's day.

What sought they thus afar? Bright jewels of the mine, The wealth of seas, the spoils of war? They sought a faith's pure shrine.

Is it where the flow'r of the orange blows, And the fireflies dance thro' the myrtle boughs?

A passion for flowers, is, I think, the only one which long sickness leaves untouched with its chilling influence.

There is strength deep bedded in our hearts, of which we reck but little till the shafts of heaven have pierced its fragile dwelling. Must not earth be rent before her gems are found?

Gird your hearts with silent fortitude, Suffering, yet hoping all things.

Though the past haunt me as a spirit, I do not ask to forget.