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.