Trust, when it goes cannot be glued together again like a dropped vase. It is a flower that came to pass all summer-dewed by its own sweet laws. It is a bird that flew to nest on a green bough of its own choice. O no one can summon once it is gone the silenced note or the vanished rose! Roots hold.m But roots always have known an antique right ungiven to bloom. Song holds.m But song in a wounded throat may for its mend seek deeper groves. And what goes on unseen, untold -- havened by shadow steeped in hush -- Alone will again that flower disclose or again, as a bird call out.