I Worshipped Dead Men For Their Strength,

Everywhere Bees Go Racing With The Hours, / For Every Bee Becomes A Drunken Lover, / Standing Upon His Head To Sup The Flowers.

All The Small Squalors Of The Body, Known Only To Oneself, Insignificant In Youth, Easily Dismissed, In Old Age Became Dominant And Entered Into Fulfilment Of The Tyranny They Had Always Threatened.

I Loved You When Love Was Spring, And May, Loved You When Summer Deepened Into June, And Now When Autumn Yellows All The Leaves.

The Farmer And The Gardener Are Both Busy, The Gardener Perhaps The More Excitable Of The Two, For He Is More Of The Amateur, Concerned With The Creation Of Beauty Rather Than With The Providing Of Food. Gardening Is A Luxury Occupation; An Ornament, Not A Necessity, Of Life.

For Bees Are Captious Folk / And Quick To Turn Against The Lubber's Touch.