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by Ruby Archer

A purple haze hangs hotly o'er the hills;
The bees' low chant falls murmuring on the ear;
Bright butterflies flit by, now far, now near,
Yielding to gay caprice their fickle wills.

Their rainbow hues are yet bedewed with morn.
On wings all jewel-decked they move elate,
A beamy brilliancy irradiate,
Winding a wavy path unknown of thorn.

They find the chalice of the trumpet-vine;
And fold their wings of gossamer; alight,
Sipping a moment as a fairy might;
Then soft away, in quest of sweeter wine.

And thus they win the balm of every flower,
Wantonly gypsying in revelry—
Not burden-bearing like the groaning bee—
Bacchantes all—their life a golden hour.

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