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Updated: May 28, 2025
He must indeed be a God who invented the roses. They sank into the red hearts of men and women, caused old men to sigh, young men to long, and women to weep with strange ecstatic sadness. But their scent made Faber lonely and poor, for the rose-heart would not open its leaves to him. The winds were soft and odor-laden.
Their dreariness flowed over her in cold, soupy odors, that left a feeling of a coating of grease over the surface of her. The poor filbert of gaslight burning into floor after floor of slits of hallway. The climb after a whole processional of spotty landladies whose shortness of breath contributed to the odor-laden air.
A silent, odor-laden air, From heavy branches dropping balm; A crowd of daisies, milky fair, That sunward turn their faces calm, So rapt, a bird alone may dare To stir their rapture with its psalm.
The night wind came to me, odor-laden from the roses, only to show me how poor a thing it was compared with Bettina's breath upon my cheek and its sweetness in my nostrils.
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