Tree? themselves are ours; 



Fruits are born of flowers ; 

 Beech, and roughest nut were blossoms in the spring; 



The lusty bee knows well 



The news, comes pell-mell. 

 And dances in the gloomy thicks with darksome antheming: 



Beneath the very burden 



Of planet-pressing ocean 

 We wash our smiling cheeks in peace — a thought for meek devotion. 



Leigh Hunt. 



