The past is the only dead thing that smells sweet.

The simple lack of her is more to me than others presence.

The simple lack of her is more to me than others' presence.

To-day I think
Only with scents, - scents dead leaves yield,
And bracken, and wild carrot's seed,
And the square mustard field;

Odours that rise
When the spade wounds the root of tree,
Rose, currant, raspberry, or goutweed,
Rhubarb or celery;

The smoke's smell, too,
Flowing from where a bonfire burns
The dead, the waste, the dangerous,
And all to sweetness turns.

It is enough
To smell, to crumble the dark earth,
While the robin sings over again
Sad songs of Autumn mirth."

- A poem called DIGGING.

The fairest things have fleetest end,/ Their scent survives their close:/ But the rose's scent is bitterness/ To him that loved the rose!

We in the Virgin Islands work hard, but we play hard, too.