Half-opening her lips to the frost's morning sigh, how strangely the rose has smiled on a swift-fleeting day of September! How audacious it is to advance in stately manner before the blue-tit fluttering in the shrubs that have long lost their leaves, like a queen with the spring's greeting on her lips; to bloom with steadfast hope that, parted from the cold flower-bed, she may be the last to cling, intoxicated, to a young hostess's breast.