By John Clare
    [From HONE'S "Year Book"]

    The insect world, now sunbeams higher climb,
    Oft dream of Spring, and wake before their time:
    Bees stroke their little legs across their wings,
    And venture short flights where the snow-drop hings
    Its silver bell, and winter aconite
    Its buttercup-like flowers that shut at night,
    With green leaf furling round its cup of gold,
    Like tender maiden muffled from the cold:
    They sip and find their honey-dreams are vain,
    Then feebly hasten to their hives again.
    The butterflies, by eager hopes undone,
    Glad as a child come out to greet the sun,
    Beneath the shadows of a sunny shower
    Are lost, nor see to-morrow's April flower.