She hideth Her the last


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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She hideth Her the last