Whilst Breezy Waves Toss Up Their Silvery

When Was Ever Honey Made With One Bee In A Hive?

Father Of Rosy Day, No More Thy Clouds Of Incense Rise; But Waking Flow'rs, At Morning Hours, Give Out Their Sweets To Meet Thee In The Skies.

Boughs Are Daily Rifled By The Gusty Thieves, And The Book Of Nature Getteth Short Of Leaves.

The Autumn Is Old; The Sere Leaves Are Flying; He Hath Gather'd Up Gold, And Now He Is Dying;- Old Age, Begin Sighing!

Well For The Drones Of The Social Hive That There Are Bees Of An Industrious Turn, Willing, For An Infinitesimal Share Of The Honey, To Undertake The Labor Of Its Fabrication.