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!