are the colors of the flowers; — volatile their drowsy-sweet odors as the perfume of youth.
And thou, O reader, when thou receivest, from the wrinkled hands of the Norns, who measure the lives of summer blossoms, an odorous gift for the ivory hand of thy living idol, —
Knowest thou that the gift is in itself a voiceless symbol of the fragility of all which thou worshippest?
Fair girl, a mightier Norn than that grey woman who silently weaves her flowers in the sun, has measured the golden thread of thy life: —
Though sweeter than the presence of Esther, bathed six months in palm-oil and rich odors before entering the chamber of the King — thy youth will pass like the breath of a flower; —
Though thy lips be as those of the Shulamitess, they will wither and crisp and
