The Present; Or, The Bag Of The Bee:
Poem by Robert Herrick
Fly to my mistress, pretty pilfering bee,
And say thou bring'st this honey-bag from me;
When on her lip thou hast thy sweet dew placed,
Mark if her tongue but slyly steal a taste;
If so, we live; if not, with mournful hum,
Toll forth my death; next, to my burial come.
Comments about The Present; Or, The Bag Of The Bee: by Robert Herrick
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
Read poems about / on: death