Volume 147 — THE BEES.
Reading edition
The brown bee sings among the heather A little song and small— A song of hills and summer weather And all things musical; An ancient song, an ancient story For days as gold as when The gods came down in noontide's glory And walked with sons of men. A merry song, since skies are sunny— How in a Dorian dell Was borne the bland, the charméd honey To young Comatas' cell; Thrice-happy boy the Nine to pleasure That they for hours of ill Did send, in love, the golden measure, The honey of their hill. Gone are the gods? Nay, he who chooses This morn may lie at ease And on a hill-side woo the Muses And hear their honey-bees; And haply mid the heath-bell's savour Some rose-winged chance decoy, To win the old Pierian favour That fed the shepherd-boy.