Whose angry labours wound the ear of Noon,
Finds in the winter, from his garnered store,
Quick spoliation, and a bitter death;
The light-winged Butterfly, with truer scope,
Ranges, all summer, through the garden-beds,
And, ignorant of darker days to come,
Enjoys a life-long holiday; the Man
Who spake as never man did, bade us view
The untended lilies of the desert-plain:
“They toil not,” said he, “neither do they spin;