The Truth That Seems Discouraging Does In

If The Bee Disappeared Off The Face Of The Earth, Man Would Only Have Four Years Left To Live.

Every Year, In November, At The Season That Follows The Hour Of The Dead, The Crowning And Majestic Hours Of Autumn, I Go To Visit The Chrysanthemums ... They Are Indeed, The Most Universal, The Most Diverse Of Flowers.

Once At A Potent Leader's Voice I Stayed; Once I Went Back When A Good Monarch Prayed; Mortals, Howe'er We Grieve, Howe'er Deplore, The Flying Shadow Will Return No More.

Brave Old-flowers! Wall-flowers, Gilly Flowers, Stocks! For Even As The Field-flowers, From Which A Trifle, A Ray Of Beauty, A Drop Of Perfume, Divides Them, They Have Charming Names, The Softest In The Language; And Each Of Them, Like Tiny, Art-less Ex-votos, Or Like Medals Bestowed By The Gratitude Of Men, Proudly Bears Three Or Four.

The Hour Of Justice Does Not Strike On The Dials Of This World.