But evil is wrought by want of thought, As well as want of heart!
A moment's thinking is an hour in words.
We watch'd her breathing through the night, Her breathing soft and low, As in her breast the wave of life Kept heaving to and fro.
There is not a string attuned to mirth but has its chord of melancholy.
No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees, No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds - November!
Well for the drones of the social hive that there are bees of an industrious turn, willing, for an infinitesimal share of the honey, to undertake the labor of its fabrication.