by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Methinks ofttimes my heart is like some bee
That goes forth through the summer day and sings.
And gathers honey from all growing things
In garden plot or on the clover lea.
When the long afternoon grows late, and she
Would seek her hive, she cannot lift her wings.
So heavily the too sweet bin den clings,
From which she would not, and yet would, fly free.
So with my full, fond heart; for when it tries
To lift itself to peace crowned heights, above
The common way where countless feet have trod,
Lo! then, this burden of dear human ties,
This growing weight of precious earthly love,
Binds down the spirit that would soar to God.