50
But to the Butterfly, the Bee
Replied, with serious brow,
"Suppose you work an hour with me,
I'm not at leisure now.
By daily industry I live,
Say, will you aid my task?
And bear this pollen to the hive,
If I do what you ask?
Perhaps you'd better toil a while
For your own winter store,
For Summer wears a fleeting smile,
And Autumn's at the door."
"Good bye," the Butterfly rejoin'd,
"You've grown a mope, I see,
There's nothing hurts a brilliant mind,
Like stupid industry."
And so, the Bee with cheerful care,
Pursued on pinions light,
Thro' the vast regions of the air,
Her trackless path aright.
