Her love would surely grow. She planted it and watered it with beauty that she'd shown. She sat beneath its branches, sighing in the shade. She marveled at the little piece of magic that she made. She took it in her heart and placed it in his hands, it blossomed and it flowered and away with it he ran.
"Give me books, French wine, fruit, fine weather and a little music played out of doors by somebody I do not know."
John Keats
