The Humble Bee

When lifes tempests blow high
In seclusion I tread
Where the primroses lie
And the green mosses spread
Where the bottle tit hangs
At the end of a twig
Where the humble bee bangs
That is almost as big.


Where I feel my heart lonely
I am solitudes own
Talking to myself only
And walking woods lone
In the wood briars and brambles
Hazel stools and oak trees
I enjoy such wood rambles
And hear the wood bees.


That sing their wood journey
And stop at wood blooms
Where the primroses burn ye
And the violet perfumes
There to myself talking
I rub through the bushes
And the boughs where I'm walking
Like a sudden wind rushes.


The wood gate keeps creaking
Opened ever so slow
And from boughs bent to breaking
Often starts the odd crow
Right down the green riding
Gladly winds the wild bee
Then through the wood side in
He sucks flowers in glee.


He flies through the stovens
Brown hazel and grey
Through fern leaves like ovens
Still singing his way
He rests on a moss bed
And perks up his heels
And strokes o'er his small head
Then hies to the fields


I enjoy these wood rambles
And the juicey wheat fields
Where the wood rose — and brambles
A showers covert yields
I love the wood journey
Where the violets melt blue
And primroses burn ye
With flames the day through.
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