been so aggrieved as to run over here to have a good cry!"

While speculating within himself, he halted. He then heard, mingled with
wails:--

Flowers wither and decay; and flowers do fleet; they fly all o'er the
skies;
Their bloom wanes; their smell dies; but who is there with them to
sympathise?
While vagrant gossamer soft doth on fluttering spring-bowers bind its
coils,
And drooping catkins lightly strike and cling on the embroidered
screens,
A maiden in the inner rooms, I sore deplore the close of spring.
Such ceaseless sorrow fills my breast, that solace nowhere can I find.
Past the embroidered screen I issue forth, taking with me a hoe,
And on the faded flowers to tread I needs must, as I come and go.
The willow fibres and elm seeds have each a fragrance of their own.
What care I, peach blossoms may fall, pear flowers away be blown;
Yet peach and pear will, when next year returns, burst out again in
bloom,
But can it e'er be told who will next year dwell in the inner room?
What time the third moon comes, the scented nests have been already
built.
And on the beams the swallows perch, excessive spiritless and staid;
Next year, when the flowers bud, they may, it's true, have ample to
feed on:
But they know not that when I'm gone beams will be vacant and nests
fall!
In a whole year, which doth consist of three hundred and sixty days,