Sweet Nectar Poem by James Walter Orr

Here sit I now, as love transcends,
and fate conspires to make amends
for those transgressions of the past,
when toil came first and love came last.

Often blooms that blossom latest,
make the honey that is greatest:
brightest color, sweetest scent,
with all the reasons love is spent.

When first the cold winds sweep the land,
a spot of blood, the roses stand,
and feed, though late, the minstrel bee:
His succor for eternity.

The bee, now far from home and hive,
has now the way and will to thrive,
and has, as all the gods suppose,
just reason now to love the rose.