Must he toil beneath the sun

Who has nothing else to do?

What's the use of such a one?

I know not—pray do you?

Skies are not aflame for him;

He converses not with elves;

Primroses on river's brim

Can be nothing but themselves.

Need he interfere with me,

Who care only to be blest?

Go thy way, unhappy bee,

Leave a butterfly at rest.

Butterflies with painted wings

Are a part of Nature's plan;

Is not every bird that sings,

Wiser than a busy man?

[pg 41]

Harry's rich tenor delighteth my ears

Oft as I hear it; 'tis ever the same;

Brings to my eyes a soft soupçon of tears,

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