The nearest Dream recedes-unrealized-
The Heaven we chase,
Like the June Bee-before the School Boy,
Invites the Race-
Stoops-to an easy Clover-
Then-to the Royal Clouds
Lifts his light Pinnace-
Heedless of the Boy-
Staring-bewildered-at the mocking sky-
Homesick for steadfast Honey-
Ah, the Bee flies not
That brews that rare variety!