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!"