Shireen and the Bee / David Atwood Wasson

Shireen and the Bee

SHIREEN went out 'mid the blooms of May,
And gladdened the lea with a rarer bloom:
On a breathing bank of flowers she lay,
And sweetened the breath of their perfume,
Gave balm to the breath of their perfume.

She sang from her heart; and the bird on the bough
Pouring paradise out of a quivering throat,
Grew silent to hear her; and ah! now, now,
No more he delights in his own glad note,
No longer he pipeth his own pure note.

On her bed of bloom she closed then her eyes,
And gave herself up to the peace of her breast;
And sleep stole down from a watch in the skies,
To win a new charm from her virgin rest,
To gather new balm from her angel rest.

A bee was flying the honey to sip
From maiden bosoms of roses Dew-blown;
But their bosoms he left, and flew to her lip
And would feed all summer on that alone,
Would fill up his hive from that alone.

But, ah! too deep the delight of the bee,
And soon he wanteth all will to fly:
" Oh! there s no summer but here," quoth he,
"And here, only here, will I live and die –
It were life upon such a couch to die,"

She woke, and him from his trance of bliss
Swept lightly away with ivory hand;
But now for the bee no honey but this!
No roses are sweet in all the land,
One sweet, and but one, in all the land.

Where violets cluster, languid his wing:
Where apple-trees blossom, vacant his eye;
He can find in his flight no winsome thing:
"My summer is over," he saith with a sigh;
" My summers are o'er, I can only die."

~~
David Atwood Wasson (1823-1887)
from Poems, 1888

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

David Atwood Wasson biography