Anne Charlotte Lynch (1815–1891)

THE HONEY-BEE, that wanders all day long

The field, the woodland, and the garden o’er,

To gather in his fragrant winter store,

Humming in calm content his quiet song,

Seeks not alone the rose’s glowing breast,

The lily’s dainty cup, the violet’s lips,

But from all rank and noxious weeds he sips

The single drop of sweetness closely prest

Within the poison chalice. Thus if we

Seek only to draw forth the hidden sweet

In all the varied human flowers we meet

In the wide garden of humanity,

And, like the bee, if home the spoil we bear,

Hived in our hearts it turns to nectar there.