In The Name Of The Bee And

Some Arrows Slay But Whom They Strike - But This Slew All But Him - Who So Appareled His Escape - Too Trackless For A Tomb

Enough Is So Vast A Sweetness I Suppose It Never Occurs.

Two Seasons, It Is Said, Exist- The Summer Of The Just, And This Of Ours, Diversified With Prospect, And With Frost- May Not Our Second With Its First So Infinite Compare That We But Recollect The One The Other To Prefer?

A Little Madness In The Spring Is Wholesome Even For The King, But God Be With The Clown, Who Ponders This Tremendous Scene-- This Whole Experiment In Green, As If It Were His Own!

A Death-blow Is A Life-blow To Some Who, Till They Died, Did Not Alive Become; Who, Had They Lived, Had Died, But When They Died, Vitality Begun.