The wild aeolian lyre
Is but a silken string,
Till summer winds inspire,
And softest music bring.

Psyche, thou wast but stone
Till his inspiring came:
The sculptor's hand alone
Made not that soul-touched frame.

They have lain by me for years, and are pretty good for one who didn't write.
I think, however, she was young when she addressed them to the
"soul-touched" work of the young sculptor, who laid his genius and everything
at Virginia's feet. They were friends, I believe, when she was a girl,
before she caught that cold, and her eyes got bad.

Among her eccentricities was her absurd cowardice. She was afraid of cows,
afraid of horses, afraid even of sheep. And bugs, and anything that crawled,
used to give her a fit. If we drove her anywhere, and the horses cut up
the least bit, she would jump out and walk, even in the mud;
and I remember once seeing her cross the yard, where a young cow
that had a calf asleep in the weeds, over in a corner beyond her,
started toward it at a little trot with a whimper of motherly solicitude.
Cousin Fanny took it into her head that the cow was coming at her,
and just screamed, and sat down flat on the ground, carrying on
as if she were a baby. Of course, we boys used to tease her,
and tell her the cows were coming after her. You could not help teasing
anybody like that.