THE BEES.
The brown bee sings among the heather
A little song and small—
A song of hills and summer weather
And all things musical;
An ancient song, an ancient story
For days as gold as when
The gods came down in noontide's glory
And walked with sons of men.
A merry song, since skies are sunny—
How in a Dorian dell
Was borne the bland, the charméd honey
To young Comatas' cell;
Thrice-happy boy the Nine to pleasure
That they for hours of ill
Did send, in love, the golden measure,
The honey of their hill.
Gone are the gods? Nay, he who chooses
This morn may lie at ease
And on a hill-side woo the Muses
And hear their honey-bees;
And haply mid the heath-bell's savour
Some rose-winged chance decoy,
To win the old Pierian favour
That fed the shepherd-boy.