The sun was shining, after rain,

The garden gleamed and glistened;

I heard a humblebee complain—

I bent me down and listened.

Around a nodding stalk he flew,

That bore white lilies seven;

And five were opened wide, and two

Slept in their lily heaven.

The foolish bee, the grumbling bee,

That might have found a palace

(As any one beside could see)

Within the honeyed chalice—

The grumbling bee, the foolish bee,

Still hummed one note of sorrow:

“Oh, that to-day would give to me

The blossoms of to-morrow.”

From bud to bud, the livelong hour,

I saw him pass and hover,

And pry about each fast-shut flower,

Some entrance to discover.

A discontented mind, no doubt,

A moral here should borrow;

I only say: “Don’t fret about

The blossoms of to-morrow!”