'HOW FAIR, HOW FRESH WERE THE ROSES . . .'
Somewhere, sometime, long, long ago, I read a poem. It was soon forgotten . . . but the first line has stuck in my memory—
'How fair, how fresh were the roses . . .'
Now is winter; the frost has iced over the window-panes ; in the dark room burns a solitary candle. I sit huddled up in a corner; and in my head the line keeps echoing and echoing—
'How fair, how fresh were the roses . . .'
And I see myself before the low window of a Russian country house. The summer evening is slowly melting into night, the warm air is fragrant of mignonette and lime-blossom; and at the window, leaning on her arm, her head bent on her shoulder, sits a young girl, and silently, intently gazes into the sky, as though looking for new stars to come out. What candour, what inspiration in the dreamy eyes, what moving innocence in the parted questioning lips, how calmly breathes that still-growing,
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