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Updated: May 18, 2025
The rose is red in the rich passion of love, the lily is pale in the poverty of it; but the crepe-myrtle is pink in the constancy of it. O bloom of the crepe-myrtle! And none but a lover ever smelled it none but a lover ever knew! She ran up the gentle slope to the old-fashioned garden and threw herself under the tree from whence the dying odor came.
And how common and vulgar and all-surfeiting it is, loading the air around it with its sickening imitation of sweetness, so that even the bees stagger as they pass through it and disdain to stop and shovel, for the mere asking, its musky and illicit honey. But, O mystic odor of the crepe-myrtle O love which never dies how differently it grows and lives and blooms! In color, constant a deep pink.
"Do you not think?" he asked, after a while as they stood by the gate, "that I should have a sweet answer soon?" Her eyes fell. The death song of the crepe-myrtle, aroused by a south wind suddenly awakened, smote her painfully. "You know you know how it is, Richard" "How it was Alice. But think life is a practical a serious thing. We all have had our romances.
She could not breathe.... Her head reeled.... The crepe-myrtle fell on her and smothered her.... When she awoke Mrs. Westmore sat by her side and was holding her head while her brother was rubbing her arms. "You must be ill, darling," said her mother gently. "I heard you scream. What " They helped her to rise. Her heart still fluttered violently her head swam.
Twelve years twelve years out of his life years of forgetfulness and yet it seemed but a few months since he had bade Alice good-bye here here under the crepe-myrtle tree where he now stood. He knelt and kissed the holy sod. A wave of triumphant happiness came over him. He arose and threw passionate kisses toward her window. Then he mounted and rode off. At The Gaffs he looked long and earnestly.
And this music of the crepe-myrtle, pulsing through the shower-cooled leaves of that summer night, was accompanied by a mocking-bird from his nest in the tree. Never did the memory of that night leave Alice Westmore. In after years it hurt her, as the dream of childhood's home with green fields about, and the old spring in the meadow, hurts the fever-stricken one dying far away from it all.
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