In the Garden
A butterfly flits from flower to flower, Lingering long at the petals’ edge; She is not like the rest of us — In our lives we cling to the hedge.
The bees go buzzing on their quest; Their yellow bodies heavy with toil; They’re so absorbed in their labor that They will never be troubled by spoil.
The fragrance rises like spirits freed, And the blooms blush softly dumb; Yet the loveliest sound is the still retreat, When the evening’s breath starts to hum.
Ah, let us stay with these kindly ones, The blossoms so tender, supreme; For here lies all that life can give, In the quiet of beauty’s dream.
- Lizette Woodworth Reese