Maria Jane Jewsbury

The Roving Bee

Nature's self's thy Ganymede.

                              Cowley.

EVERY bud possessing
That the garden yields,
Yet in search of blessing
Found in distant fields,
Wild inconstant bee,
What so false as thee?
Nay, he loves each flower
Till its honey fails;
He forsakes no bower,
Till its beauty pales;
Winged and wandering bee,
Wherefore libel thee?
Doth he waste the treasure
Gathered by his art,
And in idle pleasure
Revel and depart?
Grave and diligent bee,
There's no guile in thee!
Sipping each bud's sweetness,
None dost thou destroy,
They flourish on in meetness,
Bloom without alloy;
O gentle, gentle bee,
Nought injured is by thee!
HEART, as prone to roving,
Idle, selfish thing,
Thine's no guileless loving,
Thou, dost mar and sting
Unlike the harmless bee,
Each flower that shelters thee.
Ever, ever toiling
For thine own delight,
Ever, ever spoiling
That thou findest bright
Proud heart, the roving bee
Is worthier far than thee!