"She came, yet she came not," said the red weasel. "What did she answer when thou saidst that I had slain thy mate?"
"She sighed, 'Thou singest a gay song, O bird!'" hummed a golden beetle.
"My grief! that she cannot understand."
"She is lost to us indeed!" said a honeysuckle swaying in the wind, "for she trod me beneath her feet when I held my sweet blossoms for her lips."
"And she tore me aside," cried the wild bramble, "when I did but reach towards her for embrace."
"She will know thee no more," said the red weasel; "she hath been to the great city."
"She laid her lips upon me ere she went," spake the wild bramble, "and said she would return to us soon."
"She bid me ring a merry chime," whispered the heather, "and I move my many bells now for her welcome, but she will not hear."
"She will speak with thee no more," said the red weasel; "she hath walked in the city, like one goeth upon the fairy sleeping grass, and her soul hath forgotten us."
"She is still and cold," said a shining fly glancing through the air. "I have danced a measure under her eyes, and she did not see."
"She is dead," said the honey-bee, "for when she would not look upon me as before, I drew my sword and stung her sharply, but she did not stir. She sat and gazed into the distance where the smoke like a great gray web lieth heavy. She is surely dead."