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!