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.

Listen! O, listen!
Here come the hum the golden bees
Underneath full blossomed trees,
read more

Listen! O, listen!
Here come the hum the golden bees
Underneath full blossomed trees,
At once with glowing fruit and flowers crowned.

For pitty, Sir, find out that Bee
Which bore my Love away
I'le seek him in your read more

For pitty, Sir, find out that Bee
Which bore my Love away
I'le seek him in your Bonnet brave,
I'le seek him in your eyes.

"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."

Burly, dozing humblebee,
Where thou art is clime for me.
Let them sail for Porto Rique,
read more

Burly, dozing humblebee,
Where thou art is clime for me.
Let them sail for Porto Rique,
Far-off heats through seas to seek.
I will follow thee alone,
Thou animated torrid-zone!

The honey-bee that wanders all day long
The field, the woodland, and the garden o'er,
To gather read more

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.

In the nice bee, what sense so subtly true
From pois'nous herbs extracts the healing dew?

In the nice bee, what sense so subtly true
From pois'nous herbs extracts the healing dew?

Seeing only what is fair,
Sipping only what is sweet,
. . . .
read more

Seeing only what is fair,
Sipping only what is sweet,
. . . .
Leave the chaff, and take the wheat.

Bees work for man, and yet they never bruise
Their Master's flower, but leave it having done,
read more

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.