METHOUGHT I heard a butterfly Say to a labouring bee: "Thou hast no colours of the sky On painted wings like me." "Poor child of vanity! those dyes, And colours bright and rare," With mild reproof, the bee replies, "Are all beneath my care. "Content I toil from morn to eve, And scorning idleness, To tribes of gaudy sloth I leave The vanity of dress." | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...GALAHAD IN THE CASTLE OF THE MAIDENS by SARA TEASDALE BALLADE AGAINST THE ENEMIES OF FRANCE by FRANCOIS VILLON THE CONTRACT by EMILY DICKINSON THE FIRE OF DRIFTWOOD; DEVEREUX FARM, NEAR MARBLEHEAD by HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW THE SHEPHERDESS by ALICE MEYNELL |