you often find yourself in this room as a good place in which to be miserable; for it is dark and still, full of ancient furniture, sombre curtains and hung all round with unfinished portraits of unknown men. no doubt it is an excellent place for woe, as the fitful spring rain that patterns on the window-pane seems to sob "cry away; i'm with you."

prim little doll you are always home, claiming bad weather and a cold keeps you indoors, spending most of your youth in between books and inked paper. here you read a great deal, cry a little and dream when allowed, among the books hands have stored for ages in the old dusty shelves. this suits you better than anything else but it is not good for you; you grow pale, heavy-eyed and listless, though your soft mother keeps all sorts of pretty needle-work stored in her closet and she paints you with lilacs when violets grow under your eyes. your poor friends rack their brains out for new amusement to wrap you round and determined to venture you in a bold stroke though not very hopeful of its success. little dreaming that their odd friend would find pleasure for herself in a most unexpected quarter.

child, you have no real cause to be sad, for you sleep in warm covers and have not yet discovered the real war among the spirits' cries. for you are unlike any other your sorrows may echo now; amuse yourself with the never ending nostalgia for it can only last so long before it brings you back.  
you were given the freedom to *** round, to swift from anger to content without consequences to hold worries about.

before squeezing out a single tear listen to the soft bird's chips, oath yourself the right of sadness but don't deny the desire for love, for every girl must find her corner when she's out in the real world.

my friend i wouldn't borrow trouble but have a real good time, i'm sure i should think i was clover if i had folks and colours and nothing to do but enjoy myself.

      sing for you, play for you
          a dulcy melody.