Still grows the vivacious lilac a generation after the door and lintel and the sill are gone, unfolding its sweet-scented flowers each spring, to be plucked by the musing traveller; planted and tended once by children’s hands, in front-yard plots, – now standing by wall-sides in retired pastures, and giving place to new-rising forests; the last of that stirp, sole survivor of that family.
Henry David Thoreau, Walden (1854)
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| Photo by EP |
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