The Butterfly And The Bee. (From The Villager's Verse-Book.)

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 till eve,
And, scorning idleness,
To tribes of gawdy sloth I leave
The vanities of dress.

William Lisle Bowles

William Lisle Bowles was an English cleric, poet, and critic who was born on 24th September 1762 and died on 7th April 1850. He is best known for his sonnets, which were highly praised by the Romantic poets. Bowles's work significantly influenced Samuel Taylor Coleridge and William Wordsworth. Besides his poetry, he wrote extensively on literary criticism and editing. Bowles spent much of his clerical career in Wiltshire and Gloucestershire.

William Lisle Bowles

Southampton Castle.[1] - Inscribed To The Marquis Of Lansdowne.

William Lisle Bowles, Simple Poetry

Song Of The American Indian

William Lisle Bowles, Simple Poetry

The Bridge Between Clifton And Leigh Woods

William Lisle Bowles, Simple Poetry

Sunrise. (From The Villager's Verse-Book.)

William Lisle Bowles, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

To A Butterfly

Stay near me, do not take thy flight!
A little longer stay in sight!
Much converse do I find I thee,
Historian of my infancy!
Float near me; do not yet depart!
Dead times revive in thee:
Thou bring'st, gay creature as thou art!
A solemn image to my heart,
My father's family!

Oh! pleasant, pleasant were the days,
The time, when, in our childish plays,
My sister Emmeline and I
Together chased the butterfly!
A very hunter did I rush
Upon the prey: with leaps and spring
I followed on from brake to bush;
But she, God love her, feared to brush
The dust from off its wings.

William Wordsworth

Spring - Cuckoo. (From The Villager's Verse-Book.)

The bee is humming in the sun,
The yellow cowslip springs,
And, hark! from yonder woodland's side
Again the cuckoo sings!

Cuckoo, cuckoo, no other note
She sings from day to day;
But I, though a poor cottage girl,
Can work, and read, and pray.

And whilst in knowledge I rejoice,
Which heavenly truth displays,
Oh! let me still employ my voice
In my Redeemer's praise.

William Lisle Bowles

The Swallow And The Red-Breast. (From The Villager's Verse-Book.) An Apologue.

The swallows, at the close of day,
When autumn shone with fainter ray,
Around the chimney circling flew,
Ere yet they bade a long adieu,
To climes where soon the winter drear
Shall close the unrejoicing year.
Now with swift wing they skim aloof,
Now settle on the crowded roof,
As counsel and advice to take,
Ere they the chilly north forsake.
Then one, disdainful, turned his eye,
Upon a red-breast twittering nigh,
And thus began, with taunting scorn:
Thou household imp, obscure, forlorn,
Through the deep winter's dreary day,
Here, dull and shivering, shalt thou stay;
Whilst we, who make the world our home,
To softer climes impatient roam,
Where summer, still on some green isle
Rests, with her sweet and lovely smile?
Thus speeding, far and fa...

William Lisle Bowles

To A Butterfly (2)

I've watched you now a full half-hour;
Self-poised upon that yellow flower
And, little Butterfly! indeed
I know not if you sleep or feed.
How motionless! not frozen seas
More motionless! and then
What joy awaits you, when the breeze
Hath found you out among the trees,
And calls you forth again!

This plot of orchard-ground is ours;
My trees they are, my Sister's flowers;
Here rest your wings when they are weary;
Here lodge as in a sanctuary!
Come often to us, fear no wrong;
Sit near us on the bough!
We'll talk of sunshine and of song,
And summer days, when we were young;
Sweet childish days, that were as long
As twenty days are now.

William Wordsworth

Bees And Other Fellow-Creatures.

The dove laid some little sticks,
    Then began to coo;
The gnat took his trumpet up
    To play the day through;
The pie chattered soft and long -
    But that she always does;
The bee did all he had to do,
    And only said, "Buzz."

Jean Ingelow

What The Bee Is To The Floweret.

HE.

What the bee is to the floweret,
    When he looks for honey-dew,
Thro' the leaves that close embower it,
    That, my love, I'll be to you.

SHE.

What the bank, with verdure glowing,
    Is to waves that wander near,
Whispering kisses, while they're going,
    That I'll be to you, my dear.

SHE.

But they say, the bee's a rover,
    Who will fly, when sweets are gone;
And, when once the kiss is over,
    Faithless brooks will wander on.

HE.

Nay, if flowers will lose their looks,
    If sunny banks will wear away,
Tis but right that bees and brooks
Should sip and kiss them while they may.

Thomas Moore