“Brilliant insects would flit about us, spreading their gauzy wings.”
“And the white butterflies and blue dragon-flies, gyrating in strange circles through the air, would alight for a moment on our dentate edges to tell each other the secrets of that mysterious love lasting but an instant and burning up their lives.”
“Each of us was a note in the concert of the groves.”
“Each of us was a tone in their harmony of color.”
“In the silver nights when the moonbeams glided over the mountain tops, dost remember how we would chat in low voices amid the translucent shadows?”
“And we would relate in soft whispers stories of the sylphs who swing in the golden threads that the spiders hang from tree to tree.”
“Until we hushed our murmurous speech to listen enraptured to the plaints of the nightingale, who had chosen our tree for her throne of song.”
“And so sad and so tender were her lamenting strains that, though filled with joy to hear her, the dawn found us weeping.”
“Oh, how sweet were those tears which the dew of night would shed upon us, and which would sparkle with all the colors of the rainbow in the first gleam of dawn!”
“Then came the jocund flock of linnets to pour into the grove life and sound with the gleeful, gay confusion of their songs.”