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.’
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