The lilacs, once marking with purple fragrance the gateway where no longer do lovers linger; the stepping-stones, half-buried in myrtle run wild, that lead to the broken front entry; the degenerate tufts of ribbon-grass here and there battling for life against the myrtle and weeds and lilac sprouts; the unpruned tangle of roses whose haws show that each spring they strive to be ready to welcome again the hands that were wont to tend them—all are eloquent of the domestic scenes, that once vivified this abandoned homestead. None makes so sure of keeping his memory green as he who plants seeds in the kindly soil about the family doorstep.
The wit of the wild
By Ernest Ingersoll

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