Flirting flitting over the thyme, by bees with yellow band—
My little son of seven came close, and clipp’d me by the hand;
A wreath of mourning cloth was wound
His small left arm and sword-hilt round,
And on the thatch of every hive a whisp of black was bound.
“Sweet mother, we must tell the bees, or they will swarm away:
Ye little bees!” he called, “draw nigh, and hark to what I say,
And make us golden honey still for our white wheaten bread,
Though never more
We rush on war