Classic Poem

A FIELD of clover in the heat;
Dusty brown bees with laden thighs, —
Shaming the idle butterflies,
The saucy poacher-folk they meet,
Which steal but never store the prize
And make no gain of all the sweet.

A lawless clan! Despite the sign,
I watch, entranced, the lovely things!
I feed upon their painted wings;
I drink their beauty in like wine!
Honey is sweet: I doubt it brings,
To sip it, pleasure half so fine.

Then let who will extol the bees;
For me, the idle butterflies.
O happy vagrants, if unwise!
I watch you sail in spendthrift ease,
And shutting my toil-weary eyes,
Own that my mood with yours agrees.