Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, TO A WILD BEE, by MARY ANN BROWNE


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

TO A WILD BEE, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: Roamer of the mountain
Last Line: And thou, thou murmuring bee! Should chorus o'er my grave.
Alternate Author Name(s): Gray, James, Mrs.; Gray, Mary Anne Browne
Subject(s): Bees; Insects; Beekeeping; Bugs


Roamer of the mountain!
Wanderer of the plain!
Lingerer by the fountain,
Where thou dost sustain
A part in Nature's rich, and wild and varied strain!

Fairy of the summer!
I love to watch thy flight,
When first thou art a comer,
On wings so gauzy light,
Flitting in wildering maze before my dazzled sight.

Thou hummest o'er the heather
Upon the breezy hill;
And in sultry weather,
When every wind is still,
Float'st through the waveless air unto the singing rill.

On the moorland mosses,
Thou sip'st the fragrant thyme;
And the tufted bosses
Of greenest grass doth climb,
With struggling feet, to rest thy wings in noontide's prime.

In the lily's blossom,
An ivory palace tower,—
In the roses bosom,
Safe from the sudden shower,
Thou shelterest, heeding not how thunder clouds may lower.

Thou lov'st the cool green places
Where the dew lies late,
Where the twilight's traces
Are, near her palace gate,—
Her palace midst the trees, wherein she keeps her state.

Thou lov'st the sunny Hours,
When upwards thou dost spring,
With the dew from chaste, cool flowers
And mosses on thy wing,—
The sweet enslaving dew, that doth so closely cling.

Thou lov'st the sunset's glowing,
When, with thy mimic toil,
Half weary, thou art going
Laden with thy sweet spoil,
Unto thy quiet home, wherein is no turmoil.

Oh vagrant, happy rover!
Gatherer of treasures rare!
Never did truest lover
A heart so happy bear,
As thou, who woo'st all flowers, without a fear or care.

I would that I might ever
Have thee before mine eyes!
Surely I should endeavour
To learn to be as wise,
And all the simple gifts of holiest nature prize.

But even now, unsteady!
Thou tak'st again thy flight,
Thy little wings already
Are quivering in the light,
Thy hum is faintlier heard, thou darted from my sight!

I would, when death hath stilled me,
And checked this restless heart,
When his icy hand has chilled me,
And I must needs depart,
I would I might be laid where thou, wild wanderer, art!

And then the winds should whisper,
And the willow branches wave;
And the cricket, merry lisper,
And the throstle, minstrel brave,
And thou, thou murmuring bee! should chorus o'er my grave.





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