Hushed Willows And I won't help but stare at every word

 

And it is the low sigh of the seraph that the maymaid drifts upon, glad  (in her own wilting way)  to delve amongst the quiet of this very place of natal nostalgia for as long as he wished to linger; however farther he wished to roam.  "No,"  she murmurs, dispelling for now the urgings to flit to the tomb of her midwife and those cradled lovers.  "Changed it has not, to ze eye. I may only wonder how much else has, otherwise."

Epitome of patience; the then-herbalist would await for the stilling of his state of mind without qualm or query.