Pale, beyond porch or portal,
Crowned with calm leaves, she stands
Who gathers all things mortal
With cold immortal hands;
Her languid lips are sweeter
Than love's who fears to greet her
To men that mix and meet her
From many times and lands.

-The Garden of Prosephene

Ah, ma petite ange.. none could have lead me astray to death as you did. The infant Death, with tiny hands and liquid azure eyes, the most beautiful statue of a child. Je t'aimerais toujours, chere.. and merci for your immortal touch.