The Bright Incarnate Spirit Of The Morn.

We Come From The Earth, We Return To The Earth, And In Between We Garden.

My Virgin Sense Of Sound Was Steeped In The Music Of Young Streams; And Roses Through The Casement Peeped, And Scented All My Dreams.

A Garden That One Makes Oneself Becomes Associated With One’s Personal History And That Of One’s Friends, Interwoven With One’s Tastes, Preferences And Character And Constitutes A Sort Of Unwritten Autobiography.

Faded Smiles Oft Linger In The Face, While Grief's First Flakes Fall Silent On The Heart!

The Bright Incarnate Spirit Of The Morn.