Here the fairest blossoms thinking,
Swift he flies, nor loads the stem;
Poised in air, and odour drinking,
Fluttering hangs the feather’d Gem.
Sure, he deems, these cups untasted,
Many a honied drop allow!
Soon he finds his labour wasted;
Bees have robb’d that orange bough.
Wandering bees, at blush of morning,
Drain’d of all their sweets the bells;