The wind and the song were but a shadow and an echo.

They that are the very core of spring hung forgotten on her garments' fringe.

All the passion of the world was gathered into the still, upturned faces of the primroses, glowing with a pale light from within.

All the love that ever had been, or could be, all rapture of aspiration and service and self-surrender were mirrored there.
* * * * * Magdalen wept for Fay, as once in bygone years she had wept for Everard: as perhaps some woman of Palestine may have wept when Jesus of Nazareth passed by, speaking as never man spake, and her lover went with him a little way and then turned back.
* * * * * "There is no sorrow," said the primroses.

"There is neither sorrow nor sin.