“Full many a gem of purest ray serene,
The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear;
Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,
And waste its sweetness on the desert air.”
That was a trite reflection; and as apposite as yours, Friswell; unless you go on to assume that through the desert air there buzzed a bee to carry off the soul of the blushing flower and cause it to fertilise a whole garden, so that the desert was made to blossom like the rose.”
“Who was the bee that rescued the poem from the desert sheet that enshrouded it?” asked Dorothy.
“I have never heard,” I said, nor had Friswell.
There was a long pause before he gave a laugh, saying—
“I wonder if you will kick me out of your garden when I tell you the funny analogy to all this that the mention of the word desert forced upon me.”
“Try us,” said 1. “We know you.”