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

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

Next time!' In what calendar are kept the records of those next times which never come?

O month when they who love must love and wed.

There is nothing so skillful in its own defense as imperious pride.

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

Motherhood is priced Of God, at price no man may dare To lessen or misunderstand.