because there is a little wall around her place of peace: and yet
she knows, in her heart, if she would only look for its knowledge,
that, outside of that little rose-covered wall, the wild grass, to
the horizon, is torn up by the agony of men, and beat level by the
drift of their life-blood.

Have you ever considered what a deep under meaning there lies, or at
least may be read, if we choose, in our custom of strewing flowers
before those whom we think most happy? Do you suppose it is merely
to deceive them into the hope that happiness is always to fall thus
in showers at their feet?--that wherever they pass they will tread
on herbs of sweet scent, and that the rough ground will be made
smooth for them by depths of roses? So surely as they believe that,
they will have, instead, to walk on bitter herbs and thorns; and the
only softness to their feet will be of snow. But it is not thus
intended they should believe; there is a better meaning in that old
custom. The path of a good woman is indeed strewn with flowers; but
they rise behind her steps, not before them. "Her feet have touched
the meadows, and left the daisies rosy."

You think that only a lover's fancy;--false and vain! How if it
could be true? You think this also, perhaps, only a poet's fancy -


"Even the light harebell raised its head
Elastic from her airy tread."


But it is little to say of a woman, that she only does not destroy
where she passes. She should revive; the harebells should bloom,