 | Poems |  |
239
THE BEE.
“Busy Bee, untiring one,
Honest eye-servant of the Sun,
Is't for him thou workest so?
Will he ever care or know?
Or who else doth service crave?
Art thou hireling? Art thou slave?
Whither doth thy toiling tend?
To be smothered in the end—
While the Dorr and Dragon-Fly
Idly live and gently die?”
Honest eye-servant of the Sun,
Is't for him thou workest so?
Will he ever care or know?
Or who else doth service crave?
Art thou hireling? Art thou slave?
Whither doth thy toiling tend?
To be smothered in the end—
While the Dorr and Dragon-Fly
Idly live and gently die?”
Saith the Bee, “It is my part,
And I do it with my heart,
Ever cheerful work to give,
And herein I happy live,
Waiting not the close of day
To receive my certain pay.
Of the end I nothing wis,
But full clearly know I this—
Idle should I rest, or fly,
Every hour a death I'd die.”
And I do it with my heart,
Ever cheerful work to give,
And herein I happy live,
240
To receive my certain pay.
Of the end I nothing wis,
But full clearly know I this—
Idle should I rest, or fly,
Every hour a death I'd die.”
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