MISS JAY.
Aha, we've put a bridle on you there!
MRS. STRAWMAN.
The tea is good, one knows by the bouquet.
FALK.
Well, let us keep the simile you chose.
Love is a flower; for if heaven's blessed rain
Fall short, it all but pines to death— [Pauses.
MISS JAY.
What then?
FALK [with a gallant bow].
Then come the aunts with the reviving hose.—
But poets have this simile employed,
And men for scores of centuries enjoyed,—
Yet hardly one its secret sense has hit;
For flowers are manifold and infinite.
Say, then, what flower is love? Name me, who knows,
The flower most like it?
MISS JAY.
Why, it is the rose;
Good gracious, that's exceedingly well known;—
Love, all agree, lends life a rosy tone.
A YOUNG LADY.
It is the snowdrop; growing, snow enfurled;
Till it peer forth, undreamt of by the world.
AN AUNT.
It is the dandelion,—made robust
By dint of human heel and horse hoof thrust;
Nay, shooting forth afresh when it is smitten,
As Pedersen so charmingly has written.
LIND.
It is the bluebell,—ringing in for all
Young hearts life's joyous Whitsun festival.
MRS. HALM.
No, 'tis an evergreen,—as fresh and gay
In desolate December as in May.