Classic Poem

A bee in the heart of a rose
May flutter its wings,
But nothing it guesses or knows
Of beautiful things.
Should I ask of the bee, " Are they fair,
The roses that swing in the air? "
It would say, " They are suitable meat
For earth's little toilers to eat. "

On outermost leaf of a rose,
As pausing in flight,
A butterfly rests, and it glows
Like opals at night.
Should I whisper, " Thou gem of the air,
For whom are the roses so fair? "
It would tell me they fell from the sky,
God's gift to his gay butterfly!

A worm, at the root of a rose,
Gnaws on in the dark;
It sees not the way that it goes,
It hears not the lark.
Should I lean from my place in the tower
To question the worm of the flower,
It would answer, " The rose-tree is made
That worms may live under the shade. "

A bee in the heart of a rose
May flutter its wings,
But nothing it guesses or knows
Of beautiful things.
Should I ask of the bee, " Are they fair,
The roses that swing in the air? "
It would say, " They are suitable meat
For earth's little toilers to eat. "

On outermost leaf of a rose,
As pausing in flight,
A butterfly rests, and it glows
Like opals at night.
Should I whisper, " Thou gem of the air,
For whom are the roses so fair? "
It would tell me they fell from the sky,
God's gift to his gay butterfly!

A worm, at the root of a rose,
Gnaws on in the dark;
It sees not the way that it goes,
It hears not the lark.
Should I lean from my place in the tower
To question the worm of the flower,
It would answer, " The rose-tree is made
That worms may live under the shade. "