Puslapio vaizdai


"I, madam," quoth he, "Am a publican Bee, Collecting the tax

Of honey and wax.

Have you nothing for me?"


On the Wing

To the Grasshopper and the Cricket
Green little vaulter in the sunny grass,
Catching your heart up at the feel of June,-
Sole voice that's heard amidst the lazy noon,
When even the bees lag at the summoning brass;
And you, warm little housekeeper, who class
With those who think the candles come too soon,
Loving the fire, and with your tricksome tune
Nick the glad silent moments as they pass!
O sweet and tiny cousins, that belong,

One to the fields, the other to the hearth,
Both have your sunshine; both, though small, are

At your clear hearts; and both seem given to


To sing in thoughtful ears their natural song,-
In doors and out, summer and winter, Mirth.


On the


The Bee

Like trains of cars on tracks of plush

I hear the level bee:

A jar across the flowers goes,
Their velvet masonry

Withstands until the sweet assault
Their chivalry consumes,
While he, victorious, tilts away

To vanquish other blooms.

His feet are shod with gauze,
His helmet is of gold;
His breast, a single onyx
With chrysoprase, inlaid.

His labor is a chant,

His idleness a tune;
Oh, for a bee's experience

Of clovers and of noon!


The Humble-Bee

Burly, dozing humble-bee,

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!

Zigzag steerer, desert cheerer,
Let me chase thy waving lines;
Keep me nearer, me thy hearer,
Singing over shrubs and vines.

Insect lover of the sun,

Joy of thy dominion!

Sailor of the atmosphere;

Swimmer through the waves of air;

Voyager of light and noon;

Epicurean of June,

Wait, I prithee, till I come

Within earshot of thy hum,—
All without is martyrdom.

When the south wind, in May days,

With a net of shining haze

Silvers the horizon wall,

And with softness touching all,

Tints the human countenance

With a color of romance,
And, infusing subtle heats,
Turns the sod to violets,
Thou, in sunny solitudes,
Rover of the underwoods,
The green silence dost displace
With thy mellow, breezy bass.

Hot midsummer's petted crone,
Sweet to me thy drowsy tone

On the

On the

Tells of countless sunny hours,
Long days, and solid banks of flowers;
Of gulfs of sweetness without bound
In Indian wildernesses found;

Of Syrian peace, immortal leisure,
Firmest cheer, and bird-like pleasure.

Aught unsavory or unclean

Hath my insect never seen;

But violets and bilberry bells,

Maple-sap and daffodels,

Grass with green flag half-mast high,

Succory to match the sky,
Columbine with horn of honey,
Scented fern, and agrimony,
Clover, catchfly, adder's-tongue
And brier-roses, dwelt among;
All beside was unknown waste,
All was picture as he passed.

Wiser far than human seer,
Yellow-breeched philosopher!
Seeing only what is fair,
Sipping only what is sweet,

Thou dost mock at fate and care,
Leave the chaff and take the wheat;
When the fierce northwestern blast
Cools sea and land so far and fast,
Thou already slumberest deep;
Woe and want thou canst outsleep:

Want and woe, which torture us,
Thy sleep makes ridiculous.


On the

All Things Wait Upon Thee

Innocent eyes not ours

And made to look on flowers,
Eyes of small birds, and insects small;
Morn after summer morn

The sweet rose on her thora

Opens her bosom to them all.

The last and least of things,

That soar on quivering wings,
Or crawl among the grass blades out of sight,
Have just as clear a right

To their appointed portion of delight

As queens or kings.



Lo, the lilies of the field,

How their leaves instruction yield!
Hark to Nature's lesson given
By the blessed birds of heaven!
Every bush and tufted tree
Warbles sweet philosophy:

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