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— Dips—evades—teases—deploys— 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!
