Since then, Nature has gone through all her plodding processes, and now it is all to do over again.

A sense of fatigue at the infinite repetitions of life comes over me.

If Nature would but make a little variation! If the seasons would but change their places a little, and the flowers their order, so that there might be something of unexpectedness about them! But no! they walk round and round forever in their monotonous leisure.
I am stooping to pick a little posy of violets as these languid thoughts dawdle through my mind--blue mysteries of sweetness and color, born of the unscented, dull earth.

As I pass Roger's door, having reentered the house, the thought strikes me to set them on his writing-table.

Most likely he will not notice them, not be aware of them: but even so they will be able humbly to speak to him the sweet things that he will not listen to from me.