"True in fact," said Lois. "The flowers do die. But the frost does not fall like a plague; and nobody that was right happy would say so, or think so. Take Pringle's 'Afar in the Desert,' Mrs. Barclay—
'When the sorrows of life the soul o'ercast,
And sick of the present I turn to the past;
When the eye is suffused with regretful tears
From the fond recollections of former years,
And shadows of things that are long since fled,
Flit over the brain like the ghosts of the dead;
Bright visions—'
I forget how it goes on."
"But that is as old as the hills!" exclaimed Mrs. Lenox.
"It shows what I mean."
"I am afraid you will not better your case by coming down into modern time, Mrs. Lenox," remarked Mrs. Barclay. "Take Tennyson—
'With weary steps I loiter on,
Though always under altered skies;
The purple from the distance dies,
My prospect and horizon gone.'"
"Take Byron," said Lois—
'My days are in the yellow leaf,
The flower and fruit of life are gone;
The worm, the canker, and the grief,
Are mine alone.'"
"O, Byron was morbid," said Mrs. Lenox.