INDEX 



Flowers are not always, but we may 

 Cut thorns and thistles any day. 



E. NESBIT: Quand Meme. 



And the rose like a nymph to the bath addrest, 

 Which unveiled the depth of her glowing breast, 

 Till, fold after fold, to the fainting air, 

 The soul of her beauty and love lay bare. 



SHELLEY: The Sensitive Plant. 



