O bees, sweet bees!" I said; "that nearest field Is shining white with fragrant immortelles Fly swiftly there and drain those honey wells.

The goldenrod is yellow, The corn is turning brown, The trees in apple orchards With fruit are bending down.

The woman who creates and sustains a home, and under whose hands children grow up to be strong and pure men and women, is a creator second only to God.

Who longest waits most surely wins.

Great loves, to the last, have pulses red; All great loves that have ever died dropped dead.

By all these lovely tokens September days are here, With summer's best of weather And autumn's best of cheer.

I know the lands are lit, with all the autumn blaze of Goldenrod.