557
She hideth Her the last—
And is the first, to rise—
Her Night doth hardly recompense
The Closing of Her eyes—
She doth Her Purple Work—
And putteth Her away
In low Apartments in the Sod –
As worthily as We.
To imitate her life
As impotent would be
As make of Our imperfect Mints,
The Julep—of the Bee—
