SONNET.
THE BEE
The honey-bee that wanders all day long,
The field, the woodland, and the garden o’er,
To gather in his fragrant winter store,
Humming in calm content his quiet song,
Seeks not alone the rose’s glowing breast,
The lily’s dainty cup, the violet’s lips,—
But from all rank and noxious weeds he sips
The single drop of sweetness closely press’d
Within the poison chalice. Thus, if we
Seek only to draw forth the hidden sweet,
In all the varied human flowers we meet,
In the wide garden of humanity,
And like the bee, if home the spoil we bear,
Hived in our hearts it turns to nectar there.
The field, the woodland, and the garden o’er,
To gather in his fragrant winter store,
Humming in calm content his quiet song,
Seeks not alone the rose’s glowing breast,
The lily’s dainty cup, the violet’s lips,—
But from all rank and noxious weeds he sips
The single drop of sweetness closely press’d
Within the poison chalice. Thus, if we
Seek only to draw forth the hidden sweet,
In all the varied human flowers we meet,
In the wide garden of humanity,
And like the bee, if home the spoil we bear,
Hived in our hearts it turns to nectar there.