A passion for flowers, is, I think, the only one which long sickness leaves untouched with its chilling influence.
Though the past haunt me as a spirit, I do not ask to forget.
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.
The opening and the folding flowers, that laugh to the summer's day.
Gird your hearts with silent fortitude, Suffering, yet hoping all things.
Is it where the flow'r of the orange blows, And the fireflies dance thro' the myrtle boughs?