And the heart that is soonest awake to the flowers is always the first to be touch'd by the thorns.
And soon, too soon, we part with pain, To sail o'er silent seas again.
All that's bright must fade, The brightest still the fleetest; All that's sweet was made But to be lost when sweetest.
Though an angel should write, still 'tis devils must print.
From plants that wake when others sleep, from timid jasmine buds that keep their odour to themselves all day, but when the sunlight dies away let the delicious secret out to every breeze that roams about.