THOUGHTS FROM WRITINGS 

 if we go back in after years, still even 

 then it is not the old spot; the gate 

 swings differently, new thatch has been 

 put on the old gables, the road has been 

 widened, and the sward the driven sheep 

 lingered on is gone. Who dares to think 

 then? For faces fade as flowers, and 

 there is no consolation.— ' The Open 

 Air': Wild-Flowers. 



GIVE me the old road, the same 

 flowers — they were only stitch- 

 wort— the old succession of 

 days and garland, ever weaving into it 

 fresh wild-flowers from far and near. 

 Fetch them from distant mountains, 

 discover them on decaying walls, in 

 unsuspected corners; though never 

 seen before, still they are the same: 

 there has been a place in the heart wait- 

 ing for them. — 'The Open Air': Wild- 

 Flowers. 



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