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-