Classic Poem

Happy Insect, what can be
In happiness compar'd to Thee?
Fed with nourishment Divine.
The dewy Mornings gentle Wine!
Nature waits upon thee still,
And thy verdant Cup does fill;
'Tis fill'd where-ever thou dost tread,
Natures self's thy Ganymed.
Thou dost drink, and dance, and sing;
Happier than the happiest King!
All the Fields which thou dost see,
All the Plants belong to Thee,
All that Summer Hours produce,
Fertile made with early juice.
Man for thee does sow and plow;
Farmer He, and Landlord Thou!
Thou dost innocently joy;
Nor does thy Luxury destroy;
The Shepherd gladly heareth thee,
More Harmonious than He.
Thee Country Hinds with gladness hear,
Prophet of the ripened Year!
Thee Phoebus loves, and does inspire;
Phoebus is himself thy Sire.
To thee of all things upon Earth,
Life is no longer than thy Mirth.

Happy Insect, happy Thou,
Dost neither Age, nor Winter know.

But when thou'st drunk, and danc'd, and sung
Thy fill, the flowry Leaves among,
(Voluptuous, and Wise withal,
Epicurean Animal!)
Satiated with thy Summer Feast,
Thou retir'st to endless Rest.