Do you know what poetry is, Bebee ?" "No." "But your flowers talk to you ?" "Ah! always.

But then no one else hears them ever but me; and so no one else ever believes." "Well, poets are folks who hear the flowers talk as you do, and the trees, and the seas, and the beasts, and even the stones; but no one else ever hears these things, and so, when the poets write them out, the rest of the world say, 'That is very fine, no doubt, but only good for dreamers; it will bake no bread.' I will give you some poetry; for I think you care more about dreams than about bread." "I do not know," said Bebee; and she did not know, for her dreams, like her youth, and her innocence, and her simplicity, and her strength, were all unconscious of themselves, as such things must be to be pure and true at all.
Bebee had grown up straight, and clean, and fragrant, and joyous as one of her own carnations; but she knew herself no more than the carnation knows its color and its root, "No.

you do not know," said he, with a sort of pity; and thought within himself, was it worth while to let her know?
If she did not know, these vague aspirations and imaginations would drop off from her with the years of her early youth, as the lime-flowers drop downwards with the summer heats.

She would forget them.

They would linger a little in her head, and, perhaps, always wake at some sunset hour or some angelus chime, but not to trouble her.