There is no clover, and the frustrate bees,
Abroad upon the fields and down the lane,
Through all the forests of unflowered trees,
Monotonously murmuring, complain.
Murmuring monotonous, with wilding wings
That bear no blossomy burden nightly home,—
For all their laboring, but idle things,
But builders of a barren honeycomb.
Thus is it now the summer of my dreams
When falls no drop of rain or quickening dew;
There are but sands where late were singing streams,
And dusty bareness where the sweet thyme grew:
The bees of all my thoughts are idle long,
There is no honey in the hive of song.
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