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 possible would be
As Brew from Our imperfect Mints,
The Julep - of the Bee.
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