Hub. But will not.
She is a plant of Nature's tenderest love,
And must be won to bloom by softest airs,
Else shall we risk the gentle life and see
No buds unfold.
La. Alb. I understand her not,
Nor try. She is a part of strangest days,
That like to burning dreams bewilder as
They scar the recollection. She's more kin
To those strange creatures of the wood that peeped