Book Review: Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen

30 January 2013

Being that Monday was the bicentennial of the publication of this wonderful piece of literature, I thought it quite fitting I should publish my official review this week. (I would have loved to have gotten it up on January 28th, but the hours of the day bend for no one, not even memorable anniversaries.) It may seem odd that through my many years of loving Pride and Prejudice I have never actually reviewed it on my blog, but such a statement is not quite honest. When my blog was new and my experience as a book reviewer small, I did chance to write one up — and the result was horrendous. I'll spare you the gruesome details; those who've been following my blog long enough to remember it hardly need a reminder, and those who haven't the slightest notion of what I'm talking about should count themselves lucky. As of now, the slate is wiped clean and I am reviewing it now in a much more respectable fashion than I did before. (If you make any mention of the previous review, I may have to break aforementioned slate over your head à la Anne Shirley.)

Pride and Prejudice
By Jane Austen
*Summary taken from Goodreads.com

Pride and Prejudice
'It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife.' Thus memorably begins Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice, one of the world's most popular novels. Pride and Prejudice—Austen's own 'darling child'—tells the story of fiercely independent Elizabeth Bennet, one of five sisters who must marry rich, as she confounds the arrogant, wealthy Mr. Darcy. What ensues is one of the most delightful and engrossingly readable courtships known to literature, written by a precocious Austen when she was just twenty-one years old.

Humorous and profound, and filled with highly entertaining dialogue, this witty comedy of manners dips and turns through drawing-rooms and plots to reach an immensely satisfying finale. In the words of Eudora Welty, Pride and Prejudice is as 'irresistible and as nearly flawless as any fiction could be.'

My Thoughts: This book is so much more than the romance it is often dubbed. It is a comedy of manners, overflowing with witty phrases, hilarious characters, and two unforgettable protagonists, all woven together by its author's dexterous pen. Some of the best banter and verbal sparring can be found among its pages, and it lays claim to a host of characters you can't help but love from page one. Like all good literature, it does not reveal its secrets on first acquaintance, and the story only grows richer after several readings. Much of this can be credited to its heroine, Elizabeth, who brings vivacity and wit to each scene through her good humor and quick tongue. Over the years of watching the BBC adaption of this classics, I'd come to have a certain image of Lizzy and Darcy in my mind that I thought could not be improved upon. To my own surprise, I found myself seeing these well-known characters in an entirely new light, and I met the book as if it were the first time I'd read it.

It's quite interesting to note that while this book may mention the word "marriage" more than your average piece of British literature, there's very little public affection put on display between the characters. Even Darcy's second proposal and Elizabeth's ready acceptance are penned in very discreet prose. The text offers no indication of so much as hand-holding between them; all the romance is verbal. This gives the characters a chance to become acquainted with each other, rather than being distracted by the abundance of physical affection that makes girls sigh during romantic comedies. Elizabeth gains Darcy's love through her quick wit and lively temperment, while he recommends himself to her by his changed heart, noble character, and sacrifice for the sake of Lydia's tattered reputation. That's just one element that I love so much about Pride and Prejudice.

Continuing in this vein, Austen also paints a realistic picture of the benefits of wise marriages and the downfalls of foolhardy ones. Through Mr. and Mrs. Bennet, the reader is given a glimpse of the results of marrying for lust rather than love. The author writes, “Her father, captivated by youth and beauty . . . had married a woman whose weak understanding and illiberal mind had very early in their marriage put an end to all real affection for her” (chapter 42). Neither Mr. nor Mrs. Bennet lives peaceably with each other, as the former purposely tries his wife’s patience and mocks her ignorance publicly, while the latter frets about her daughters’ chances at marriage and complains about her nerves, driving her husband away from her and into the solitude of his library. Just as the Bible says the sins of fathers will affect their children to the third and fourth generation, the Bennets' poor example influences their youngest and most flighty daughter, Lydia, who elopes with the scoundrel Wickham for the sake of temporary infatuation. Austen points out through Elizabeth's own conjectures, “How little of permanent happiness could belong to a couple who were only brought together because their passions were stronger than their virtue” (chapter 50). In this way, she shows that a strong marriage cannot be built on ungrounded passion alone, but that it is like mind, mutual respect, and a good knowledge of the other's character from which a deep, lasting love grows.

Pros: Virtue, honor, respectability, humility, and forgiveness are all supported. Those whom Austen sought to uphold either behave admirably from the start or repent and change during the course of the story. The book's underlying theme of the fallacies of basing your opinions of someone on first impressions, a lesson relevent in every age, is very strong. There is one excellent scene in particular after Elizabeth reads Darcy's letter in which his whole past concerning Wickham is revealed, and she realizes how prejudiced she has been in her behavior towards him. She experiences a complete change of heart and is filled with feelings of shame and remorse:
"How despicably have I acted!'' she cried. -- "I, who have prided myself on my discernment! -- I, who have valued myself on my abilities! who have often disdained the generous candour of my sister, and gratified my vanity, in useless or blameable distrust. -- How humiliating is this discovery! -- Yet, how just a humiliation! -- Had I been in love, I could not have been more wretchedly blind. But vanity, not love, has been my folly. -- Pleased with the preference of one, and offended by the neglect of the other, on the very beginning of our acquaintance, I have courted prepossession and ignorance, and driven reason away, where either were concerned. Till this moment, I never knew myself.'' — Pride and Prejudice, volume II, chapter 11
Cons: None. Though Lydia and Kitty flirt shamelessly with the officers of the militia, their behavior is condemned by the other characters. Even Lydia's elopement, perhaps the most scandalous occurence in the novel, is kept very clean, and free from sexual references.

Rating: 5 out of 5 stars
 
A Bit O' Reading For the Day:
“A lady's imagination is very rapid; it jumps from admiration to love, from love to matrimony in a moment.” — Pride and Prejudice

Sunday Blessings

20 January 2013


Rose Colored Glasses ~ http://amandabethonline.blogspot.com/2012/03/rose-colored-glasses.html

O Lord, you have searched me and known me!
You know when I sit down and when I rise up;
    you discern my thoughts from afar.
You search out my path and my lying down
    and are acquainted with all my ways.
Even before a word is on my tongue,
    behold, O Lord, you know it altogether.
You hem me in, behind and before,
    and lay your hand upon me.
Such knowledge is too wonderful for me;
    it is high; I cannot attain it.
Where shall I go from your Spirit?
    Or where shall I flee from your presence?
If I ascend to heaven, you are there!
    If I make my bed in Sheol, you are there!
If I take the wings of the morning
    and dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea,
even there your hand shall lead me,
    and your right hand shall hold me.
If I say, “Surely the darkness shall cover me,
    and the light about me be night,”
even the darkness is not dark to you;
    the night is bright as the day,
    for darkness is as light with you.

— Psalm 139:1-12

Have a blessed Lord's Day, ladies!

Poem of the Week: Mild the Mist Upon the Hill by Emily Brontë

18 January 2013

Winter Mist, Corfe Castle, Dorset, England
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Mild the Mist Upon the Hill
By Emily Brontë

MILD the mist upon the hill
Telling not of storms tomorrow;
No, the day has wept its fill,
Spent its store of silent sorrow.
O, I'm gone back to the days of youth,
I am a child once more,
And 'neath my father's sheltering roof
And near the old hall door
I watch this cloudy evening fall
After a day of rain;
Blue mists, sweet mists of summer pall
The horizon's mountain chain.
The damp stands on the long green grass
As thick as morning's tears,
And dreamy scents of fragrance pass
That breathe of other years.

Don't forget to link up with your respective poems below!

In Defense of the Dawn

16 January 2013

"I wonder if we're going to keep on waking up at dawn like this for the rest of our lives," said Mona.
"I like it. The day feels so unused."
Then There Were Five by Elizabeth Enright

I like to think of myself as an early-riser, but its a spirit that must be cultivated and is not natural to me anymore. I used to be one. I used to love early mornings and consider myself either sick or intolerably lazy if I laid in bed past six o' clock. I can't remember ever using an alarm; I rose with the sun, and began my day with a contented mood because of it. The day was a clean, new one, with no mistakes in it, as Anne Shirley would say, and I was present to witness its resurrection each morn.

However, with the increase of age comes a later bedtime, and if I do not get to sleep soon enough, I rise late and begin my day in a rather crumpled mood. I begin with good intentions, of course. I set my alarm and determine to get to sleep on time. But books are such horribly addicting things, and what was begun as fifteen minutes of reading before bed quickly turns into my burning of the proverbial midnight oil. Sleep? What sleep? For goodness' sake, Elizabeth is just learning of Mr. Darcy's involvement in the marriage of Lydia and Wickham! Have you no heart?

I find, though, that a day cannot begin productively unless I rise at an early or at least reasonable hour. Even if it means a shorter night, I am much fresher when I get up early, shower, dress neatly, and begin my day, rather than catching extra hours of sleep. I am more productive with my time, my mood is more pleasant, and the day is much improved all around. Now, if I were a reasonable creature, this knowledge would keep me from ever lying late abed, but alas, that is not the case. (You try reasoning with book characters who insist on revealing their deepest secrets at eleven o' clock at night!)

There are some basic principles to rising early but still getting enough sleep, and they can be boiled down to two very simple rules:

early to bed

You can't escape it. Much as I should like it, I cannot live on fewer than eight hours of sleep each night. I make exceptions when I must, but if I expect to get up at six a.m., I have to be in bed and asleep by ten. Otherwise, it's practically impossible (and quite unreasonable) to try rising early in the morning. When I can, I go up to my room an hour before I plan on going to sleep. This gives me time to go through my nightly routine, stretch, and spend time reading before I fall asleep. My father instituted this principle in me from a young age, and I find it hard to go to sleep if I don't spend some time in the pages of a book beforehand. These thirty minutes or so of reading are one of my favorite parts of the day. That is not to say, however, that I save my heaviest reading for this time. Normally one of my favorite classic or fictional reads suits perfectly.

early to rise

You've made your bed, now you need to get out of it. My alarm is not within reaching distance of my bed, forcing me to get up and go over if I wish to smother its frantic screeching. This is helpful in waking me up when I feel especially drowsy. Do not, under any circumstances, go back to bed. Harbor no excuses such as "allowing myself to wake up a little more". They're lies. Truthfully, if I go back to bed and lay my head down on my pillow, thinking I'll stay still and wake up for a moment, it's nearly impossible to drag myself back out. Groggy though I may feel, the sooner I make my bed and get into the shower, the better. The initial daze that my alarm can never quite crack is effectively shattered by warm water and soap.

Not everyone is an early riser. Some find themselves more productive late at night when the house is still. I often have those days when it seems no amount of will power or brute strength can force me up and out of bed, especially in the winter, when the mornings are cold and colorless. I promise you, though, that you will find your day much improved and much more productive if you begin it while it's still new. In Randy Melendy's words, at dawn, "the day feels so unused." It stands at your fingertips, waiting for you to fill it however you see fit.

Whims and Inconsistencies Do Divert Me, I Own

14 January 2013

Follies and nonsense, whims and inconsistencies do divert me, I own, and I laugh at them whenever I can.
—Pride and Prejudice, Elizabeth Bennet

There's great sense involved in the re-reading of a well-loved book. Turning over worn pages and reading the words held within is a great deal like reuniting with a friend not seen for many months. Every word, every turn of phrase is so wonderfully familiar, and with each passing page the reader wonders why they were ever parted. I often wonder why I pass my time re-reading when there are so many titles I have not yet read and long to read (oh, for more hours in a day!), but there are riches held between the two covers of a book, and such gems can only be properly mined after the perusal of several readings. If I were to rush through every book only for the sake of saying I'd read it (a horrid prospect, I might add), I would be missing the whole purpose of reading at all.

This month in particular has been one of nostalgia as I've been spending my free time with Jane Austen's classic comedy of manners, Pride and Prejudice. It's been so many years since I've last read this book that the story had dulled in my mind and blended unconsciously with the BBC adaption of the same name, until the two were one and the same. Much as I love the 1995 edition, I cannot allow it to replace the masterpiece from which it was adapted. Reading Pride and Prejudice again for my literature class has reminded me once more of everything that I love about this book. The story no longer seems dull, but brilliant and sparkling as if I were coming to it for the first time. (And Mr. Darcy actually smiles in the book — wonder of wonders!)

Dialogue is undeniably Miss Austen's forte, and the conversations she pens between characters are so rich with both humor and irony that it takes a minute to unravel exactly what she means. Darcy and Elizabeth's conversations are perhaps the most renowned, but they are not the only characters with tongues in their heads, and nearly ever page has a piece of gold in the form of a witty comeback, ironic statement, veiled insult, or irrational absurdity (most of the fourth category stemming from Mrs. Bennet herself). I thought I'd share a few of my favorites below, both for pure enjoyment and as a means of setting up an example of dialogue, particularly banter, done well.

'I can readily belive,' answered [Mr. Darcy] gravely, 'that reports may vary greatly with respect to me; and I could wish, Miss Bennet, that you were not to sketch my character at the present moment, as there is reason to fear that the performance would reflect no credit on either.'
'But if I do not take your likeness now, I may never have another opportunity.'
—chapter xviii

'Do you talk by a rule then, when you are dancing?'
'Sometimes. One must speak a little, you know. It would look odd to be entirely silent for half and hour together, and yet for the advantage of some, conversation ought to be so arranged as that they may have the trouble of saying as little as possible.'
'Are you consulting your own feelings in the present case, or do you imagine that you are gratifying mine?'
'Both,' replied Elizabeth, archly; 'for I have always seen a great similarity in the turn of our minds. — We are each of an unsocial, taciturn disposition, unwilling to speak, unless we expect to say something that will amaze the whole room, and be handed down to posterity with all the eclat of a proverb.'
—chapter xviii

'By all means,' cried Bingley; 'let us hear all the particulars, not forgetting their comparitive height and size; for that will have more weight in the argument, Miss Bennet, than you may be aware of. I assure you, that if Darcy were not such a great tall fellow, in comparision with myself, I should not pay him half so much deference. I declare I do not know a more awful object than Darcy, on particular occasions, and in particular places; at his own house especially, and of a Sunday evening when he has nothing to do.'
—chapter x

'Oh! my dear,' cried his wife, 'I cannot bear to hear that mentioned. Pray do not talk of that odious man. I do think it is the hardest thing in the world, that your estate should be entailed away from your own children; and I am sure if I had been you, I should have tried long ago to do something or other about it.'
Jane and Elizabeth attempted to explain to her the nature of an entail. They had often attempted it before, but it was a subject on which Mrs. Bennet was beyond the reach of reason; and she continued to rail bitterly against the cruelty of settling an estate away from a family of five daughters, in favour of a man whom nobody cared anything about.
—chapter xiii

'You shall hear then — but prepare yourself for something very dreadful. . . . He danced only four dances, though gentlemen were scarce; and to my certain knowledge, more than one young lady was sitting down in want of a partner. Mr. Darcy, you cannot deny the fact.'
'I had not at that time the honour of knowing any lady in the assembly beyond my own party.'
'True; and nobody can ever be introduced in a ballroom.'
—chapter xxxi

'No governess! How was that possible? Five daughters brought up at home without a governess! — I never heard of such a thing. Your mother must have been quite a slave to your education.'
Elizabeth could hardly help smiling as she assured [Lady Catherine] that had not been the case.
—chapter xxix

'This fine account of [Darcy]', whispered her aunt, as they walked, 'is not quite consistent with his behaviour to our poor friend.'
'Perhaps we might be deceived.'
'That is not very likely; our authority was too good.'
—chapter xliii

'This is a parade', cried [Mr. Bennet], 'which does one good; it gives such an elegance to misfortune! Snother day I will do the same; I will sit in my library, in my nightcap and powdering gown, and give as much trouble as I can, — or, perhaps, I may defer it, till Kitty runs away.'
—chapter xlviii

Poem of the Week: Write Upon These Pages by Michaela Ferrar

11 January 2013

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I first discovered this beautiful poem on my friend Michaela's blog when she shared it as an ode to the new year's start. The verses worked their way into my heart and buried themselves there, so with the authoress' permission, I am sharing her magnum opus (or rather, one of her magna opera) today as this week's poem. Though I love poetry, the writing of it is a task I don't often undertake, since I find it quite difficult trying to fit my thoughts into neat and even lines. The fact that Michaela has done so, all the while retaining the beauty and hope of her original sentiment, is quite inspiring to me. On that note, please enjoy!

Write Upon These Pages
By Michaela Ferrar

Write upon these pages Lord
This year unblemished, white
An empty, snowy canvas
Shadowed by uncertain "might".

My life has been a short one
Of sunbeams, dancing days
Golden, creamy moon-shine
Young hopes and carefree play.

Yes I know that You've been weeping
I see Your eyes so kind
Seas of deepest passion
Understanding and Divine. 

You seem a distant shadow
A silent, phantom breath
Forever there, just watching
In merciful, forgiving stealth.

Write upon these pages Lord
This pointless, shallow life
Like trees unrobed in winter
When Jack Frost bears his knife.

Driving dreams to slumber
Hiding all within
The enchanted sleep of winter
When the world must cease her din.

And underneath that stillness
As Mother Nature floats
In patient mantled waiting
Of listless, untold hopes.

That's me, the girl there watching
From a window cold with dread
With a soul of crushing sorrow
Teaming with the living dead.

I scale a shining future
I hear the battles call
I feel it in my bosom
I see the towering wall.

That guards this time of waiting
These pages, stark and blank
Flowing with Life's-River
To it's barren, lonely bank.

Write upon these pages Lord
As I write on my white sheet
This page of perfect purity 
Now black with smattered ink.

With thoughts of fairy-gardens
Of twinkling, starry hours
Swirling, sugared dew-drops
Tangled, rose-climbed bowers.

If life were only dream-land
How sweet, how fresh it'd seem
Skipping down the shoreline 
Of a careless, bubbling stream.

No walls to keep me waiting
No window etched in snow
No page to call my canvas
No poem to flex my bow.

I'd skip across eternity
In endless, carefree dance
Waltzing with the dryads
A storybook romance.

Burst you now my bubble?
Oh cruel, relentless life!
God's there, forever calling
"Only look and see My Light."

You bend so I can see You
And into my ear You say
"Patience, my dear child
You and I will fight the day."

"This page is blank but for a time
This waiting but a test
And soon you'll see, my child
That in ME you'll find your rest."

"I'll help you fill these pages
With all your carefree dreams
But take each trial gladly
Things aren't always what they seem."

Write upon these pages Lord
That wall, you say it's Yours?
It's there, just like my window
Keeping safe a soul that burns

With a world so vast and waiting
With spoiled, travel-lorn plans
With a heart that wants a difference
To impact with giving hands.

And past those rainbow wanderings
Into something deeper still
The true, undaunted calling
Of my Master's Time and Will.

Only then I'll paint my canvas
With worlds of colored glass
And God with endless winter
Will melt my page at last.

Feeling in a lyrical mood and wishing you had an outlet through which to share it? Link up below with your own snippets of poetry. The more the merrier!

Filling the Unforgiving Minute

09 January 2013


if you can fill the unforgiving minute
with sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,
yours is the earth and everything that’s in it,
and—which is more—you’ll be a man, my son!
"if" by rudyard kipling

Despite the blustry January weather, despite the grey skies and somewhat dreary days, I'm convinced a sort of magic flows through the air in this first month. We stand before a new year, twelve pure, unspotted months, and it is our choice what to make of them. There are hundreds of things I'd like to say I plan to change about myself and how I live my daily life, but that is not the true meaning of this new year. Plenty make vain promises that they forget soon enough before February's rosy blush touches the horizon. The test comes for those who plod onward and remain as steadfast in October as they did in January.

One of my aspirations this year is to be a more punctual and purposeful blogger. Undoubtably such matters as schoolwork, housework, and other family responsibilites must always take priority over my blog's upkeep, but I should still not like to fall into a habit of lax, uninspired posting. I feel as if these past few months in particular have been slow ones here on Literary Lane, and I intend to change that in 2013. Taking inspiration from Rachel (what would blogging be without the little pin-pricks we receive from fellow writers to move further up and further in?), I'm going to set up some reasonable goals for myself and this site that I intend to keep throughout the next year at least. 

For one, Literary Lane will have a new posting schedule. Instituting personal deadlines is the very spurring onward I need to complete tasks on time or, in this case, post regularly. I will only be updating this blog on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. (Sunday Blessings posts will also continue to go up each Lord's Day.) Such a schedule accomplishes two tasks, for it not only keeps me from going a week without a new post, but it also limits the amount of time I spend on the computer blogging. I enjoy keeping up this site, but the computer is not everything, and balance and good time management are always important things to keep in mind. I don't want one thing to completely override my other interests, responsibilites, and pursuits.

Speaking of the computer, I'll also be limiting all personal time on it, whether spent on blogging, email, Google+, or Pinterest, to one hour or less. Much as I am blessed by the relationships I share with those I have befriended through blogging and much as I am inspired and pushed further in my writing by all of you, I cannot let the world of blogging be my life. I love you all, and I'm certainly not taking a fast from all social media and Internet usage, but I also have a family that cannot be neglected in favor of other things. 

On New Year's Eve I posted about the books I hope to read in this next year, and so far I've made some progress on that list. At the moment, I'm invested in David McCullough's 1776 (I also hope to read his John Adams this year, if time allows) and re-reading Pride and Prejudice for school (the most fun I've ever had with a required assignment). I've read just a few pages of The Last of the Mohicans, but I hardly consider that a proper beginning, so it balances tenuously between my to-read and currently-reading lists. My main goal for this year is to read productively. It's a simple task for me to read regularly, but I plan to hone in on titles that are well worth my time (I confess, I'm a bit of a book-snob), all the while remembering Larry Arnn's words about it being "better to read a few books carefully . . . than many books lightly."

On the Rifles in the South Field front, I've been rather silent of late. I completed the first draft of Part I at the end of November, and as Part II requires a hefty knowledge of the battles of the American Revolution, I've taken a self-imposed break from the manuscript to devote my time to research (hence my reading of 1776). My father has several other titles lined up for me to read when I've finished McCullough's book, and I'm already looking forward to burying my nose in their pages. There are a great many scenes I am still able to write, so Rifles won't be by any means abandoned, but I'll be progressing through it slowly, one day at a time, and all the while downing as much history as I can in order to tackle the more difficult parts.

If I were to sum up my aspirations for the year into one word, it would be discipline. At the heart of it, I'm going to live not for those brilliant bursts of inspiration, but move steadily further up and further in, taking my responsibilities in mangeable bites, and keeping a good balance between Bible study, school, family, blogging, and my personal interests. I want to learn more how to set Jesus at the forefront of my life and give Him full power. I plan to devote more of my time to studying His Word and learning about this great God that I serve, that I might grow "in wisdom and in stature and in favor with God and man" (Luke 2:52). I want to drink it all in and see the Word with new, unveiled eyes. I want to learn better how to love my neighbor as myself and put others' interests before my own.

In short, I want to live each day to God's glory.

Poem of the Week: Winter Stores by Charlotte Brontë

04 January 2013


There's something quite correct about a new year arriving now while we are clenched in Winter's icy grasp. The sharp, clean flavor of the air, the shorter days, and the chilly mornings all give us daily pinpricks to be productive with the time we're given. Time is but a fleeting, flaxen cord that slips through our fingertips as the spinning wheel runs 'round. May we make the most of it while we have it, for we can never guarantee that it will remain in our possession for long.

Winter Stores
By Charlotte Brontë

We take from life one little share,
And say that this shall be
A space, redeemed from toil and care,
From tears and sadness free.

And, haply, Death unstrings his bow,
And Sorrow stands apart,
And, for a little while, we know
The sunshine of the heart.

Existence seems a summer eve,
Warm, soft, and full of peace,
Our free, unfettered feelings give
The soul its full release.

A moment, then, it takes the power
To call up thoughts that throw
Around that charmed and hallowed hour,
This life’s divinest glow.

But Time, though viewlessly it flies,
And slowly, will not stay;
Alike, through clear and clouded skies,
It cleaves its silent way.

Alike the bitter cup of grief,
Alike the draught of bliss,
Its progress leaves but moment brief
For baffled lips to kiss

The sparkling draught is dried away,
The hour of rest is gone,
And urgent voices, round us, say,
“'Ho, lingerer, hasten on!”

And has the soul, then, only gained,
From this brief time of ease,
A moment’s rest, when overstrained,
One hurried glimpse of peace?

No; while the sun shone kindly o’er us,
And flowers bloomed round our feet,—
While many a bud of joy before us
Unclosed its petals sweet,—

An unseen work within was plying;
Like honey-seeking bee,
From flower to flower, unwearied, flying,
Laboured one faculty,—

Thoughtful for Winter’s future sorrow,
Its gloom and scarcity;
Prescient to-day, of want to-morrow,
Toiled quiet Memory.

’Tis she that from each transient pleasure
Extracts a lasting good;
’Tis she that finds, in summer, treasure
To serve for winter’s food.

And when Youth’s summer day is vanished,
And Age brings Winter’s stress,
Her stores, with hoarded sweets replenished,
Life’s evening hours will bless.

Have a blessed evening!
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