Little women

All the bees and the flowers, farewell, the faeries fly around, and in pleasant satisfaction they write plays and words flew around them and Louisa wrote Little women all alone in the cottage. Crouched together they acted in plays and stomped like elephants. Little women, sisters and another an actress. And another died of yellow fever, Beth. Her faerielike dreams, please open the window she said. Hair lost, foggy and pale and lost. Sick and gone. It was sweet watching her enter paradise. To see her was to love her. Stars fade one after one and moonlight fades from flower and rose. Unseen by mortal eyes the pale dusk withers. For the elves may go, she wrote and the morningstar shall lead us home.   Safe in her household flower she rests with book on flowerbed. Love shall lead us home. Her smile shall give us much praise and her plays shall be played as any act. And fine and fair her countenance be, that we may see. Happily the woodbirds sing and haply their song may be. While she sat in her room and wrote. Thistledown! Thistledown! Here to comfort thee is Lily Bell. And we leave her faerietale cottage, our lady of the words. She sits there and write still today, beyond her woodland home. And still today the flower grows from her weddinggown, so sweet from her beloveds hair.