 | Poems |  |
214
VANITY OF VANITIES.
Bee to the blossom, moth to the flame;
Each to his passion; what 's in a name?
Each to his passion; what 's in a name?
Red clover 's sweetest, well the bee knows;
No bee can suck it; lonely it blows.
No bee can suck it; lonely it blows.
Deep lies its honey, out of reach, deep;
What use in honey hidden to keep?
What use in honey hidden to keep?
Robbed in the autumn, starving for bread;
Who stops to pity a honey-bee dead?
Who stops to pity a honey-bee dead?
Star-flames are brightest, blazing the skies;
Only a hand's-breadth the moth-wing flies.
Only a hand's-breadth the moth-wing flies.
Fooled with a candle, scorched with a breath;
Poor little miller, a tawdry death!
Poor little miller, a tawdry death!
Life is a honey, life is a flame;
Each to his passion; what 's in a name?
Each to his passion; what 's in a name?
Swinging and circling, face to the sun,
Brief little planet, how it doth run!
Brief little planet, how it doth run!
Bee-time and moth-time, add the amount;
White heat and honey, who keeps the count?
White heat and honey, who keeps the count?
215
Gone some fine evening, a spark out-tost!
The world no darker for one star lost!
The world no darker for one star lost!
Bee to the blossom, moth to the flame;
Each to his passion; what 's in a name?
Each to his passion; what 's in a name?
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