Song In Three Parts.

I.     The white broom flatt'ring her flowers in calm June weather,         'O most sweet wear;     Forty-eight weeks of my life do none desire me,         Four am I fair,'         Quoth the brown bee         'In thy white wear         Four thou art fair.         A mystery         Of honeyed snow         In scented air         The bee lines flow         Straight unto thee.         Great boon and bliss         All pure I wis,         And sweet to grow         Ay, so to give         That many live.         Now as for me,         I,' quoth the bee,         'Have not to give,         Through long hours sunny         Gathering I live:         Aye debonair         Sailing sweet air         After my fare,         Bee-bread and honey.         In thy deep coombe,         O thou white broom,         Where no leaves shake,         Brake,         Bent nor clover,         I a glad rover,         Thy calms partake,         While winds of might         From height to height         Go bodily over.         Till slanteth light,         And up the rise         Thy shadow lies,         A shadow of white,         A beauty-lender         Pathetic, tender.         Short is thy day?         Answer with 'Nay,'         Longer the hours         That wear thy flowers         Than all dull, cold         Years manifold         That gift withhold.         A long liver,         O honey-giver,         Thou by all showing         Art made, bestowing,         I envy not         Thy greater lot,         Nor thy white wear.         But, as for me,         I,' quoth the bee,         'Never am fair.'     II.     The nightingale lorn of his note in darkness brooding         Deeply and long,     'Two sweet months spake the heart to the heart. Alas! all's over,         O lost my song.'         One in the tree,         'Hush now! Let be:         The song at ending         Left my long tending         Over als.         Let be, let us go         Across the wan sea.         The little ones care not,         And I fare not         Amiss with thee.         Thou hast sung all,         This hast thou had.         Love, be not sad;         It shall befall         Assuredly,         When the bush buddeth         And the bank studdeth -         Where grass is sweet         And damps do fleet,         Her delicate beds         With daisy heads         That the Stars Seven         Leaned down from heaven         Shall sparkling mark         In the warm dark         Thy most dear strain         Which ringeth aye true -         Piercing vale, croft         Lifted aloft         Dropt even as dew         With a sweet quest         To her on the nest         When damps we love         Fall from above.         "Art thou asleep?         Answer me, answer me,         Night is so deep         Thy right fair form         I cannot see;         Answer me, answer me,         Are the eggs warm?         Is't well with thee?"         Ay, this shall be         Assuredly.         Ay, thou full fain         In the soft rain         Shalt sing again.'     III.     A fair wife making her moan, despised, forsaken,             Her good days o'er;     'Seven sweet years of my life did I live belovd,             Seven - no more.'         Then Echo woke - and spoke             'No more - no more,'         And a wave broke             On the sad shore         When Echo said             'No more,'         Nought else made reply,         Nor land, nor loch, nor sky         Did any comfort try,         But the wave spread         Echo's faint tone         Alone,         All down the desolate shore,         'No more - no more.'