When Love Is At Its Best, One

O Winter! Frozen Pulse And Heart Of Fire, What Loss Is Theirs Who From Thy Kingdom Turn Dismayed, And Think Thy Snow A Sculptured Urn Of Death! Far Sooner In Midsummer Tire The Streams Than Under Ice. June Could Not Hire Her Roses To Forego The Strength They Learn In Sleeping On Thy Breast.

Bee To The Blossom, Moth To The Flame; Each To His Passion; What's In A Name?

O Bees, Sweet Bees!" I Said; "that Nearest Field Is Shining White With Fragrant Immortelles Fly Swiftly There And Drain Those Honey Wells.

Motherhood Is Priced Of God, At Price No Man May Dare To Lessen Or Misunderstand.

Wounded Vanity Knows When It Is Mortally Hurt; And Limps Off The Field, Piteous, All Disguises Thrown Away. But Pride Carries Its Banner To The Last.