The Bee Poem by James McLain

As for all the fair nuns running I run too their convent.
So it is not, but of why are you troubled?
The room where I Play whose hall is too narrow.
And I play the hermit therein and I am satisfied.
Within their small velevet cells.
And the student then who has the serious stronghold.

The maid of woven french manufacture
made of the wheel and that her loom, pleasantly do I beceech so
and happiness within I sit down from.

She puts In order off the highest of peaks, when she speaks.
He spots the furness with she I push it down.
The bee, when It stings, you there, so fair as I find.