Wind ceased, the dust is scented with the fallen flowers. Though day is getting late, I am too weary to attend to my hair. Things remain as ever, yet he is here no more, and all is finished. Fain would I speak, but tears flow first.
They say that at the Twin Brooks spring is still fair. I, too, wish to row a boat there. But I am afraid that the little skiff on the Twin Brooks Could not bear the heavy load of my grief.
