To the Bees

Oh whither, honey-bees,
Oh whither fly you,
Seeking o'er blosmy leas
Food to supply you?
If you would feast on flowers divine,
No longer range without design
But hither hie you.

Come seek Cassandra's lips
Warm with my kisses —
Your honey-comb that drips
Less sweet than this is.
Here roses blow, and blood-red bowers
Of Hyacinth's and Ajax' flowers
Breathe perfumed blisses.

Sweet marjoram all Winter through,
And arum fragrant,
Wait not Spring's leave to bloom anew
That March and May grant,
But match the laurel, ever young,
While anise blossoms ever among
The woodbine vagrant.

But sheathe your stings, in care
Her lips to cherish.
She too can sting, beware! . . .
And where there flourish
A thousand flowers, leave some for mine
To bear the manna and the wine
My life that nourish.