HAppy Insect, what can bee In happiness compared to Thee? Fed with nourishment divine, The dewy Morning's gentle Wine! Nature waits upon thee still, And thy verdant Cup does fill; 'Tis fill'd where-ever thou dost tread, Nature selfe's thy Ganimed. Thou dost drink, and dance, and sing; Happier then the happiest King! All the Fields, which thou dost see, All the Plants belong to Thee! All that Summer Hours produce, Fertile made with early juice! Man for thee does sow and plough; Farmer He, and Land-Lord Thou! Thou dost innocently joy; Nor does thy Luxury destroy; The Shepherd gladly heareth thee, More Harmonious then He. Thee Countrey Hindes with gladness hear, Prophet of the ripened year! Thee Phoebus loves, and does inspire; Phoebus is himself thy Sire. To thee of all things upon Earth, Life is no longer then thy Mirth. Happy Insect, happy Thou, Dost neither Age, nor Winter know. But when thou'st drunk, and danced, and sung Thy fill, the flowry Leaves among, (Voluptuous, and Wise withal, Epicuraean Animal!) Sated with thy Summer Feast, Thou retirest to endless Rest. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...IMPROMPTU ON CHARLES II (2) by JOHN WILMOT PRIAPUS AND THE POOL: 4 by CONRAD AIKEN TREES ON THE CALAIS ROAD by EDMUND CHARLES BLUNDEN RESIGNATION by HARRY RANDOLPH BLYTHE MAUDLIN'S SONG: 1, FR. MIDSUMMER EVE by GORDON BOTTOMLEY OUT IN THE FIELDS [WITH GOD] by ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING PIETRO OF ABANO by ROBERT BROWNING ANSWER TO LINES WRITTEN IN ROUSSEAU'S LETTERS OF AN ITALIAN NUN by GEORGE GORDON BYRON |