I call a honey bee clover

I met her in February

She was the sweetest, a child of summer

Brave against the winter breeze

In love with a wild flower

Bud, frail against the cruel season

It was for him, sweet clover

Would brave the setting sun

Each day with the morning birds

She sang their breath-filled anthem

Brought in her delicate swirls

Blessings and enthusiasm

From the pockets of the god of youth

And from Aphrodite herself

Most beautiful of all the summer kisses

To delivered upon him her spell

I watched her for a whole season

Her punctual love and care

Many a friend flowers of hers

Watched in bewilderment, scared

But clover never once worried

A day, nor the late hour the bud woke up

From the depths of his lengthy slumber

And at last met his luck

I had never seen a spirit more happy

Then the blessed wild flower

Nor a maiden as mad and blushing as the bee

At any other life's hour

For about a whole spring week

That stood as long as a year

Clover and her wild flower

Had made a heaven here.