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 —
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