But Dawn is a Laydee and so would not kiss and tell. I admire her for that.
Time for another Poetic Interlude, I think.
Music, when soft voices die,
Vibrates in the memory -
Odours, when sweet violets sicken,
Live within the sense they quicken.
Rose leaves, when the rose is dead,
Are heaped for the beloved's bed;
And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone,
Love itself shall slumber on.