Wild Bees
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hese children of the sun which summer bringsAs pastoral minstrels in her merry trainPipe rustic ballads upon busy wingsAnd glad the cotters' quiet toils again.The white-nosed bee that bores its little holeIn mortared walls and pipes its symphonies,And never absent couzen, black as coal,That Indian-like bepaints its little thighs,With white and red bedight for holiday,Right earlily a-morn do pipe and playAnd with their legs stroke slumber from their eyes.And aye so fond they of their singing seemThat in their holes abed at close of dayThey still keep piping in their honey dreams,And larger ones that thrum on ruder pipeRound the sweet smelling closen and rich woodsWhere tawny white and red flush clover budsShine bonnily and bean fields blossom ripe,Shed dainty perfumes and give honey foodTo these sweet poets of the summer fields;Me much delighting as I stroll alongThe narrow path that hay laid meadow yields,Catching the windings of their wandering song.The black and yellow bumble first on wingTo buzz among the sallow's early flowers,Hiding its nest in holes from fickle springWho stints his rambles with her frequent showers;And one that may for wiser piper pass,In livery dress half sables and half red,Who laps a moss ball in the meadow grassAnd hoards her stores when April showers have fled;And russet commoner who knows the faceOf every blossom that the meadow brings,Starting the traveller to a quicker paceBy threatening round his head in many rings:These sweeten summer in their happy gleeBy giving for her honey melody.
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