The Bee

A bee, you said, might skim and soar, Fly circles round and then be gone, Yet in its slightness and the score Are golden harvests brightly drawn.

With dainty proboscis, it dips Each flower’s heart with tender grace, Transforming nectar to sweet lips Where all may taste and muse its haste.

So let it work among the blooms, And gather far and wide its gift; For in small might like honeycomb, Life’s sorrow yields to nature’s lift!

• John Clare