The Gentian Weaves Her Fringes

poem 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!