SONG IN THREE PARTS.

The white broom flatt'ring her flowers in calm June weather,

‘ O most sweet wear;

Forty-eight weeks of my life do none desire me,

Four am I fair,’

Quoth the brown bee

‘ In thy white wear

Four thou art fair.

A mystery

Of honeyed snow

In scented air

The bee lines flow

Straight unto thee.

Great boon and bliss

All pure I wis,

And sweet to grow

Ay, so to give

That many live.

Now as for me,

I,’ quoth the bee,

‘ Have not to give,

Through long hours sunny

Gathering I live:

Aye debonair

Sailing sweet air

After my fare,

Bee-bread and honey.

In thy deep coombe,

O thou white broom,

Where no leaves shake,

Brake,

Bent nor clover,

I a glad rover,

Thy calms partake,

While winds of might

From height to height

Go bodily over.

Till slanteth light,

And up the rise

Thy shadow lies,

A shadow of white,

A beauty-lender

Pathetic, tender.

Short is thy day?

Answer with‘ Nay,’

Longer the hours

That wear thy flowers

Than all dull, cold

Years manifold

That gift withhold.

A long liver,

O honey-giver,

Thou by all showing

Art made, bestowing,

I envy not

Thy greater lot,

Nor thy white wear.

But, as for me,

I,’ quoth the bee,

‘ Never am fair.’