The green elm with the one great bough of gold

Lets leaves into the grass slip, one by one, --

The short hill grass, the mushrooms small milk-white,

Harebell and scabious and tormentil,

That blackberry and gorse, in dew and sun,

Bow down to; and the wind travels too light

To shake the fallen birch leaves from the fern;

The gossamers wander at their own will.

At heavier steps than birds' the squirrels scold.

The rich scene has grown fresh again and new

As Spring and to the touch is not more cool

Than it is warm to the gaze; and now I might

As happy be as earth is beautiful,

Were I some other or with earth could turn

In alternation of violet and rose,

Harebell and snowdrop, at their season due,

And gorse that has no time not to be gay.

But if this be not happiness, -- who knows?

Some day I shall think this a happy day,

And this mood by the name of melancholy

Shall no more blackened and obscured be.

Edward Thomas

Dear friend,

With every new sun comes new opportunities — shining golden between the cotton sheets of the clouds.

Flowers wilt. Seasons change. New life springs forth from beneath the moss, lining shallow riverbeds and reaching for the sky.

It has been such an honor to be by your side throughout all of your seasons, and I look forward to what's to come.

But, for now, it has been a long, long journey, and you deserve to rest.

Before you go, I have a few gifts for you. Light reading, if you may — explore further, should you wish.

Large marble I think I was enchanted... Azure Dragon Luna moth

Leaving so soon?