Honeysuckle seems sweetest
On a late May walk
At half past seven.
The sun not yet driven away
The cool of the night,
And the odors waft upon the tender morning breeze,
Arresting the traveler in his journey.
Earth opens her perfumery in spring,
Lightening the hearts of men and women
Whose senses have waxed dull
By the dreariness of winter.
Fill the heart.
New resolve to create,
Inspired by longer, warmer days,
And the fragrances of blossoms.
But especially the sweetest honeysuckle.