Hope and despair.
They do not last.
I know that now.
Depressions come
And go.
And right thoughts feed,
then starve,
like bees on marjoram.
How the bees flock
so briskly at their work,
productive on the pink,
buzzing with intent,
bound to necessity!
So good, so true.
But when the shadows
drop their veil,
and the earth chills,
and the cold, silent
bat's wing of death
brushes the herb garden,
they vanish suddenly,
invisibly,
into the dark gap
between two rays of sun.
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