‘She sighed, “Thou singest a gay song, O bird!”’ hummed a golden beetle. ‘My grief! that she cannot understand.’
‘She is lost to us indeed!’ said a honeysuckle swaying in the wind, ‘for she trod me beneath her feet when I held my sweet blossoms for her lips.’
‘And she tore me aside,’ cried the wild bramble, ‘when I did but reach towards her for embrace.’
‘She will know thee no more,’ said the red weasel; ‘she hath been to the great city.’
‘She laid her lips upon me ere she went,’ spake the wild bramble, ‘and said she would return to us soon.’
‘She bid me ring a merry chime,’ whispered the heather, ‘and I move my many bells now for her welcome, but she will not hear.’
‘She will speak with thee no more,’ said the red weasel; ‘she hath walked in the city, like one goeth upon the fairy sleeping grass, and her soul hath forgotten us.’
‘She is still and cold,’ said a shining fly glancing through the air; ‘I have danced
