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in the hedge-row the craven milk-weed, six 

 weeks past blossom, flings a silky flag of 

 truce to the coming conqueror Autumn. 

 And all about hill-slope, pasture, and way- 

 side wall golden-rod shimmers in masses of 

 brazen yellow. Humblebees love it beyond 

 all other flowers. Indeed, it is in some sort 

 manna in the August desert to all winged 

 things. Tiny butterflies, white and yellow, 

 haunt and hover about it in fluttering clouds. 

 Honey-bees and the curious wood -wasps 

 grow drunken upon its sweets. All day they 

 cling, drowsing deliciously, to its blossom- 

 ing plumes. Night even does not always 

 sober them, though it bring dew heavier 

 than a summer shower. 



Leave them undisturbed. A little while, 

 and their lotus-eating must end. There are 

 tenantless sprays aplenty to make a sheaf 

 in which you may set the iron-weed's umbel 

 of richest purple. Surely Tyre's own hue 

 did not rival it. The law of compensation 

 runs through all of nature's works. The 

 primrose, dying in daylight, yet perfumes a 

 waking world. And this rough, weedy stalk 

 waves high above your head a crown for 

 which " royal " is all too poor a word. And 

 what prince of Holy Church ever outglowed 

 the cardinal-flower, now gleaming in slender 



