The honey-bee that wanders all day long
The field, the woodland, and the garden o'er,
To gather in his fragrant winter store,
Humming in calm content his winter song,
Seeks not alone the rose's glowing breast,
The lily's dainty cup, the violet's lips,
But from all rank and noxious weeds he sips
The single drop of sweetness closely pressed
Within the poison chalice.
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How doth the little busy bee
Improve each shining hour,
And gather honey all the day
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How doth the little busy bee
Improve each shining hour,
And gather honey all the day
From every opening flower.
The little bee returns with evening's gloom,
To join her comrades in the braided hive,
Where, housed read more
The little bee returns with evening's gloom,
To join her comrades in the braided hive,
Where, housed beside their might honey-comb,
They dream their polity shall long survive.
The solitary Bee
Whose buzzing was the only sound of life,
Flew there on restless wing,
read more
The solitary Bee
Whose buzzing was the only sound of life,
Flew there on restless wing,
Seeking in vain one blossom where to fix.
"O bees, sweet bees!" I said; "that nearest field
Is shining white with fragrant immortelles
Fly swiftly read more
"O bees, sweet bees!" I said; "that nearest field
Is shining white with fragrant immortelles
Fly swiftly there and drain those honey wells."
The careful insect 'midst his works I view,
Now from the flowers exhaust the fragrant dew,
With read more
The careful insect 'midst his works I view,
Now from the flowers exhaust the fragrant dew,
With golden treasures load his little thighs,
And steer his distant journey through the skies.
Bees work for man, and yet they never bruise
Their Master's flower, but leave it having done,
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Bees work for man, and yet they never bruise
Their Master's flower, but leave it having done,
As fair as ever and as fit to use;
So both the flower doth stay and honey run.
You are my honey, honeysuckle, I am the bee.
You are my honey, honeysuckle, I am the bee.
His labor is a chant,
His idleness a tune;
Oh, for a bee's experience
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His labor is a chant,
His idleness a tune;
Oh, for a bee's experience
Of clovers and of noon!
