Poor insect! What a little day
Of sunshine bliss is thine!
And yet thou spread'st thy light wings gay
And bidst them spreading shine.

Thou humm'st thy short and busy tune
Unmindful of the blast,
And careless, while 'tis burning noon,
How short that noon has past.

And show'r would lay thy beauty low,
The dew of twilight be
The torrent of thy overthrow,
Thy storm of destiny.

Then, insect, spread thy shining wing,
Hum on thy busy lay;
For man, like thee, has but his spring,
Like thine it fades away.