[From Hone'S "Year Book"] The Insect World, Now Sunbeams Higher Climb, Oft Dream Of Spring, And Wake Before Their Time: Bees Stroke Their Little Legs Across Their Wings, And Venture Short Flights Where The Snow-Drop Hings Its Silver Bell, And Winter Aconite Its Buttercup-Like Flowers That Shut At Night, With Green Leaf Furling Round Its Cup Of Gold, Like Tender Maiden Muffled From The Cold: They Sip And Find Their Honey-Dreams Are Vain, Then Feebly Hasten To Their Hives Again. The Butterflies, By Eager Hopes Undone, Glad As A Child Come Out To Greet The Sun, Beneath The Shadows Of A Sunny Shower Are Lost, Nor See To-Morrow'S April Flower.