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The Gentian Weaves Her Fringes

18
 
The Gentian weaves her fringes—
The Maple’s loom is red—
My departing blossoms
    Obviate parade.
 
A brief, but patient illness—
An hour to prepare,
And one below this morning
Is where the angels are—
It was a short procession,
The Bobolink was there—
An aged Bee addressed us—
And then we knelt in prayer—
We trust that she was willing—
We ask that we may be.
Summer—Sister—Seraph!
Let us go with thee!
 
In the name of the Bee—
And of the Butterfly—
And of the Breeze—Amen!
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