XLVII

THE GENTIAN weaves her fringes,

The maple’s loom is red.

My departing blossoms

Obviate parade.

A brief, but patient illness,

An hour to prepare;

And one, below this morning,

Is where the angles are.

It was a short procession,—

The bobolink was there,

An aged bee addressed us,

And then we knelt in prayer.

We trust that she was willing,—

We ask that we may be.

Summer, sister, seraph,

Let us go with thee!

In the name of the bee

And of the butterfly

And of the breeze, amen!