Classic Poem

Love, the thief, chanced on a day
Near the bees to linger,
When a naughty one, they say,
Stung him on the finger.

Oh, the wound, it hurt him so!
How he blew and shook it!
How he stamped and danced with woe,
Then to mother took it.

Spreading all his fingers, he
Sobbed to Aphrodite:
“Mother, little is the bee,
But its sting is mighty!”

Then the Queen of Passion smiled,
And she answered merely
“You are small yourself, my child,
But you wound severely.”