The water under my feet rolled down, positively not knowing why nor whence. The wind passed, “willy-nilly blowing.” I wondered whither it went. Mr. Omar is unquestionably a true poet. The petals of a rose before me fell.
I murmured:
“Each Morn a thousand Roses brings, you say;
Yes, but where leaves the Rose of Yesterday?”
I was crying in sadness when the coffin arrived.
Mr. Heine and my uncle lifted it by either edge. The neighbouring farmers and two sardonically cool gentlemen from the undertaker’s aided them. The jaw-fallen papa of the dead carried all the posies.
And Miss Morning Glory (who is the belle of Tokio) shouldered a bench for the purpose of sustaining the coffin when they were tired.
The hill is precipitous.
The gentlemen stopped numberless times, before they stationed themselves on the top.
The grave was hollowed behind Mr. Poet’s monument. They sank the coffin.