I Know The Lands Are Lit, With

There Is Nothing So Skillful In Its Own Defense As Imperious Pride.

O Proudly Name Their Names Who Bravely Sail| To Seek Brave Lost In Arctic Snows And Seas!

Still Lie The Sheltering Snows, Undimmed And White; And Reigns The Winter's Pregnant Silence Still; No Sign Of Spring, Save That The Catkins Fill, And Willow Stems Grow Daily Red And Bright. These Are Days When Ancients Held A Rite Of Expiation For The Old Year's Ill, And Prayer To Purify The New Year's Will.

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

Bee To The Blossom, Moth To The Flame; Each To His Passion; What's In A Name?