Like the last green in crucibles of dyes, these arid leaves are, rough and dull and old, behind the clustered flowers, that do not hold their blue, but catch a far blue, mirror-wise. Vaguely reflected, all but wept away, as though it might be lost if they should stir, and as in time-worn pale blue note-paper it melts to yellow, violet and grey; washed out like a child's apron, short and sheer, no longer worn, removed from jeopardy: one feels how brief a little life is, here. Yet in one cluster the soft blue is seen renewed, and one beholds, all breathlessly, a touching blue rejoicing in the green. |