A VAGRANT.
The humble bee
No skep has he,
No twisted, straw-thatched dome,
A ferny crest
Provides his nest,
The mowing-grass his home.
The crook-beaked shrike
His back may spike
And pierce him with a thorn;
The humble bee
A tramp is he
And there is none to mourn.
O'er bank and brook,
In wooded nook,
He wanders at his whim,
Lives as he can,
Owes naught to man,
And man owes naught to him.
No hive receives
The sweets he gives,
No flowers for him are sown,
Yet wild and gay
He hums his way,
A nomad on his own.