 | Poems |  |
174
THE DEAD BEE.
Oh, cruel Mary! thou hast killed a bee,That but mistook thy red lips for a rose,
Lured by that sweetness which has oft lured me
Upon their velvet softness to repose:
It sought some lovely flower; so fixed on thee,
And at thy honied fountain did but sip;
It left no sting behind, but cheerfully
Resigned its flowery life on thy sweet lip.
Nay, do not weep—it died a happy bee.
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