III
The nearest dream recedes, unrealized.The heaven we chaseLike the June beeBefore the school-boyInvites the race;Stoops to an easy clover—Dips—evades—teases—deploys;Then to the royal cloudsLifts his light pinnaceHeedless of the boyStaring, bewildered, at the mocking sky.
Homesick for steadfast honey,Ah! the bee flies notThat brews that rare variety.