We watch for the light of the morn to break,
And color the eastern sky
With its blended hues of saffron and lake;
Then say to each other, "Awake! awake!
For our winter's honey is all to make,
And our bread for a long supply!"
Then off we hie to the hill and the dell—
To the field, the meadow, and bower:
In the columbine's horn we love to dwell,—
To dip in the lily with snow-white bell,—
To search the balm in its odorous cell,
The mint, and rosemary flower.
We suck the bloom of the eglantine,—
Of the pointed thistle and brier;
And follow the track of the wandering vine,
Whether it trail on the earth, supine,
Or round the aspiring tree-top twine,
And reach for a state still higher.
As each, on the good of the others bent,
Is busy, and cares for all,
We hope for an evening with hearts content,—
That Winter may find us without lament
For a Summer that's gone, with its hours misspent,
And a harvest that's past recall!