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And sipped and sipped the silver dew—
Young Edward gazed—'I wish that I
Was happy as that butterfly.'
A Bee, that on a floweret lay,
And there had toiled since peep of day,
And now her sack with honey filled,
Her legs with yellow wax concealed,
Was just preparing home to steer,
But Edward's wish had thrilled her ear,
And thus she answered—(bees you know
Can work, perhaps they reason too—)
'Edward, if happiness you prize
Think not 't is found with butterflies—
They sport around while summer shines,
But when the gaudy day declines,
And whistling winds are keen and rude,
They have no home, no friends, no food—
You 'll see this idle butterfly
Then shiver, stiffen, sink and die!
For me, 't is true I labor hard,
But then my cells are built and stored,
And 'mid cold winter's fiercest storm,
