She paused. One might have said that these trees grieved for their native soil; and, grieving, refused to bear. “YOU had to come in. You must forgive the poet’s license I take. She creaked, groaned, and rattled; but that was only her way of yawning when she awoke. “Buon Primomaggio. They concern us all. He even hugged her a few times, something he had never done. I give myself to you. May I ask the nature of your interest in her?” He hesitated. "Oh, easily enough," rejoined the other. Don't worry about me. .
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