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 --
