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The breath of it is like incense penetrant, 

 intoxicating, subtly sweet. It brings all the 

 vivid languors of a waltz. You see the flow- 

 er drooping from beauty's hair against beau- 

 ty's breast, and there steals over and through 

 you -the spell of rhythmic motion. Some- 

 how it changes to a bridal chant a choral 

 throbbing with hope and love. 



Ah ! here is the reason of it this Lamarque, 

 whose matted mound of prickly green holds 

 up to the sunlight five hundred pure white 

 roses. The fairy queen herself must have 

 sat there last night. Nowhere else are the 

 dew pearls so large, so lucent, so thickly 

 sown. The tiniest leaf -point is agleam ; 

 every blossom hangs its bead ; while a sing- 

 ing bird, hid in its green depths, seems to 

 say aloud, " Happy is the bride that the sun 

 shines on." Then must this bride of roses 

 be blessed indeed ! Overhead all is clear 

 shining ; the wind sits in the south, and 

 barely stirs the leaves. All day for many 

 days there will be golden weather. Long 

 ere it is ended moss-roses will be ablossom. 

 Sweet as they are modest, they flower but in 

 high summer. The very breath of it wells 

 up from their deep hearts. The angel who 

 made gift of moss in return for grateful 

 shade must have added, too, the perfume of 



