Most Men Call Fretting A Minor Fault,

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

Now And Then One Sees A Face Which Has Kept Its Smile Pure And Undefiled. Such A Smile Transfigures; Such A Smile, If The Artful But Know It, Is The Greatest Weapon A Face Can Have.

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.

Who Longest Waits Most Surely Wins.

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.