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 angels 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!