TWO bumblebees, in coats of gold, 

Once met upon a rose, I'm told, 

And searched its sweetness, fold on fold.

One was a grumbler; the other went 

About his work in rare content, 

For labor was his element,

"Buzz, buzz," quoth one, "it doesn't pay 

To toil so hard from day to day. 

Leisure is best; I'd rather play.

"Of what use is it, after all? 

Our labors unto nothing fall; 

The task is hard, the gain is small.

"We never share in what we hive; 

We work that idle men may thrive. 

I feel the sorest bee alive."

"Buzz, buzz, good neighbor, would you then 

Be idle just because of men! 

Up! Up! And to your toil again.

"Must he who labors, foolish elf, 

Think but to benefit himself, 

To heap with gain his narrow shelf?

"What makes our striving doubly dear 

Is that some others it may cheer, 

Known or unknown, afar or near.

"Such labor bringeth sweetest ease, 

And maketh too the world agrees 

The best of men, the best of bees!"

 George Cooper.