Classic Poem

Oh , the bee is a careless rover!
Into the meadow at morning he goes,
Sipping the nectar out of the clover,
Going to sleep in the heart of the rose;
Or caught by a zephyr and wafted away,
Sailing o'er gardens gorgeous and gay,
When the balmy south wind blows!

Borne o'er billowy fields and valleys;
Whirled through odorous orchard alleys;
Over the dappled forest pool,
Cedar-scented, dim and cool,
Where beneath her leafy screen,
The lily floats like a Naiad queen;
In and out of the lights and shadows,
Over the dandelion meadows,
Little brown bee,
What cares he?
Floral burglar, bold and free!

What will he do when it rains, I wonder,
To hide himself from the wet and thunder?
He will creep into the tulip's chalice,
Veined and stained like a fairy's palace,
While to himself a song he sings,
And revels in perfume as he swings;
Little brown bee,
What cares he
How the rain sweeps over the lea?
By and by, when skies are clear,
His pink pavilion will unfold,
And behold!
The burly reveller reappear,
With the pollen on his wings!
But little he cares
For the look he bears,
For he is a royal bandit bold,
And wears a double belt of gold,
And hidden underneath,
A rapier in its sheath!
And what we think of him, you or me,
Little recks the wee brown bee.

No fear of dangerous mishap,
That lurks in red snapdragon's trap;
Nor bristling thistle's horny spurs,
His fierce audacity deters;
Of what the lawless plunderer will,
The dainty epicure takes his fill.

Where will he go when frosty weather
Strikes with blight the hedge and heather?
When wet leaves strew the garden walk,
And the dahlia shivers on her stalk,
And the desolate, early snows,
Ravage the fields and ruin the rose?

Ah, then he hies to his sylvan home
Of hollow oak and waxen comb,
And sleeps and feasts, and sings and sleeps,
While the storm about him sweeps!
For the wee brown bee,
What cares he,
Whether the weather and heather agree?
But he dreams of the buttercups and clover,
'Till the winter is over,
Then rubs his rings,
And trims his wings,
And frolics away like a reckless rover,
Hunting for blossoms and stealing the honey,
Hoarding it up as a miser his money.

Gay pillager of honey dew,
Go, ransack all my garden through,
And take or taste what suits thy fancy,
Of heliotrope, or pink, or pansy,
Sweet pea, or darling mignonette,
Tall gladiole, or violet.
Only let me hear thy tune,
Every sunny afternoon,
Insect troubadour of June!

Chant me, pray, another stave
Of thy solo, faint and fine!
Grander music some may have,
None is half so quaint as thine;
Like the drowsy monotone
Of a tiny bagpipe's drone.

Oh, would I too, might roam, and be
Thy summer comrade, fancy-free!
And leave, for aye, the cares and strife
That vex with trouble mortal life,
And follow the spring,
And sail and sing,
Gypsy of the air! with thee,
Busy, buzzy, wee brown bee!