Instead she walked on, plucking at a marguerite.
"Loves me--loves me _not_!" she said, bearing upon the last word with triumphant accent, as she continued to dismantle the poor flower.
And flashing round upon me with the solitary petal in her hand, she presented it with a low bow, in elfish mockery of the manner of the court exquisite.
"Ah, true flower!" she said, apostrophizing the bare stalk, "a flower cannot lie.

It has not a glozing tongue.

It cannot change back and forth.
The sun shines.

It turns towards the sun.

The sun leaves the skies.