The Bee-Wisp

Our window-panes enthral our summer bees;
(To insect woes I give this little page) —
We hear them threshing in their idle rage
Those crystal floors of famine, while, at ease,
Their outdoor comrades probe the nectaries
Of flowers, and into all sweet blossoms dive;
Then home, at sundown, to the happy hive,
On forward wing, straight through the dancing flies
For such poor strays a full-plumed wisp I keep,
And when I see them pining, worn, and vext,
I brush them softly with a downward sweep
To the raised sash — all-anger'd and perplext:
So man, the insect, stands on his defence
Against the very hand of Providence.