For our winter's honey is all to make,
And our bread for a long supply."
Then off we hie to the hill and the dell,
To the field, the wild wood and bower;
In the columbine's horn we love to dwell;
To dip in the lily with snow-white bell,
To search the balm in its odorous cell,
The thyme and the rosemary flower.
We seek for the bloom of the eglantine,
The lime, painted thistle, and brier,