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

Wounded vanity knows when it is mortally hurt; and limps off the field, piteous, all disguises thrown away. But pride carries its banner to the last.

Who longest waits most surely wins.

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

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

Wounded vanity knows when it is mortally hurt; and limps off the field, piteous, all disguises thrown away. But pride carries its banner to the last; and fast as it is driven from one field unfurls it in another, never admitting that there is a shade less honor in the second field than in the first, or in the third than in the second.

O sweet, delusive Noon, Which the morning climbs to find, O moment sped too soon, And morning left behind.