Just. How strange it is—
I think the garden never look’d so gay
As since my father died.
Luc. Ev’n so: for now,
Returning with the summer wind, the hours
Dipp’d in the sun re-dress the grave with flowers,
And make new wreaths for the survivor’s brow;
Whose spirit not to share were to refuse
The power that all creating, all renews
With self-diffusive warmth, that, with the sun’s,