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Poem	What the bee is to the floweret, When he looks for honey-dew, Through the leaves that close embower it, That, my love, I'll be to you. She. -- What the bank, with verdure glowing, Is to waves that wander near, Whispering kisses, while they're going, That I'll be to you, my dear. She. -- But they say, the bee's a rover, Who will fly, when sweets are gone, And, when once the kiss is over, Faithless brooks will wander on. He. -- Nay, if flowers will lose their looks If sunny banks will wear away, 'Tis but right that bees and brooks Should sip and kiss them, while they may.
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