She takes up a book and reads.

What little things are those

That hold our happiness!

A smile, a glance, a rose

Dropped from her hair or dress;

A word, a look, a touch,—

These are so much, so much.

An air we can n't forget;

A sunset's gold that gleams;

A spray of migonette,

Will fill the soul with dreams

More than all history says,

Or romance of old days.

For of the human heart,

Not brain, is memory;

These things it makes a part

Of its own entity;

The joys, the pains whereof

Are the very food of love.