I think the bees, the blessed bees,
Are better, wiser far than we.
The very wild birds in the trees
Are wiser far, it seems to me;
For love and light and sun and air
Are theirs, and not a bit of care.

What bird makes claim to all God's trees?
What bee makes claim to all God's flowers?
Behold their perfect harmonies,
Their common board, the common hours!
Say, why should man be less than these,
The happy birds, the hoarding bees?

The birds? What bird hath envied bird
That he sings on as God hath willed?
Yet man—what song of man is heard
But he is stoned, or cursed, or killed?
Thank God, sweet singers of the air,
No sparrow falls without His care.

O brown bee in your honey house?
Could we like you but find it best
To common build, on sweets carouse,
To common toil, to common rest,
To common share our sweets with men—
We surely would be better then.