LOVE, when he once did gladly
Among the roses linger,
Saw not a bee, which madly,
When wakened, stung his finger;
His finger sorely smarted, -
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His sobs he could not smother;
With feet and wings he darted,
To find his lovely mother.
"O mother," said he, crying,
"O, I am killed, am dying,
It killed me, when it hit me,
A small winged serpent bit me,
Called honey-bee by farmers."
Said Venus, queen of charmers,
"O Love, if bees hurt badly,
Then think, how sadly, madly
They burn, whom you sting gladly."
H. W. A.
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