



LEIGH HUNT. 
And apple-trees at noon, with bees alive, 
Burn with the golden chorus of the hive. 
Now all these sweets, these sounds, this vernal blaze— 
Is but one joy expressed a thousand ways ; 
And honey from the flowers, and song from birds, 
Are from the poet’s pen his overflowing words. 
Ah, friends! methinks it were a pleasant sphere, 
If, like the trees, we blossomed every year; 
If locks grew thick again, and vernal dyes 
Returned in cheeks, and raciness in eyes ; 
And all around us, vital to the tips, 
The human orchard laughed with cherry lips! 
So natural is the wish, that bards gone by 
Have left it all in some immortal sigh. 
* * % * * * * 
But see! the weather calls me. Here’s a bee 
Comes bounding in my room imperiously, 
And, talking to himself, hastily burns 
About mine ear, and so in heat returns. 
O little brethren of the fervid soul, 
Kissers of flowers, lords of the golden bowl, 
I follow to your fields and tufted brooks: 
Winter’s the time to which the poet looks 
For hiving his sweet thoughts, and making honeyed books, 





























