Nodding, nodding to the bees,
Asearch o’ honey’s sweet.
Wilt thou to droop and wilt the dance o’ thee,
To vanish with the going o’ the day?
Hath the tearing o’ the air o’ thy sharped thorn
Sent musics up unto the bright,
Or doth thy dance to mean anaught
Save breeze-kiss ’pon thy bloom?
Hath yonder songster harked to thee,
And doth he sing thy love?