Among the roses linger,

Saw not a bee, which madly,

When wakened, stung his finger;

His finger sorely smarted, -

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.