Here life has death for neighbour,

And far from eye or ear

Wan waves and wet winds labor,

Weak ships and spirits steer;

They drive adrift, and whither

They wot not who make thither;

But no such winds blow hither,

And no such things grow here.

"The Garden of Proserpine"

by Algernon Charles Swinburne

The chill woke Caroline with cold, creeping tendrils, stealing beneath the thin hotel blankets. Bleary-eyed, ...