"I do not see how you who are in her immediate neighbourhood, can
breathe!" said the Syringa, who was farthest removed from the poor
Poppy.
"I do feel as if I should faint!" said the Verbena.
"And I feel a cold chill creeping over me!" said the Ice Plant.
"That is not strange!" remarked the Nightshade, who had sprung up in
the shadow of the hedge, "she carries with her, everywhere she goes,
the atmosphere of the place whence she comes. Do you know where that
is?"
Some of the flowers shuddered, but the Nightshade went on:--
"The Poppy is indigenous now only on the verdureless banks of the
Styx. When Proserpine, who was gathering flowers, was carried away
to the dark Avernus, all the other blossoms which she had woven in
her garland withered and died, but the Poppy; and that the goddess
planted in the land of darkness and gloom, and called it the flower
of Death. She flourishes there in great luxuriance; Nox and Somnus
make her bed their couch. The aching head, which is bound with a
garland of her blossoms, ceases to throb; the agonized soul which
drinks in her deep breath, wakes no more to sorrow. Death follows
wherever she comes!"
"We will not talk of such gloomy things!" said the Coreopsis, with
difficulty preserving her cheerfulness.
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