LYING in thy cedarn chest,
Didst thou think thy singing done,
Comatas? and thyself unblest
Prisoned there from sun to sun?

Through the fields thy blunt-faced bees
Sought thy flowers far and away,
And gathered honey from thy trees,
Thou a prisoner night and day.

Heavy, then, with honeyed store,
Seeking west and seeking east,
Thee, whose absence they deplore,
Late they found and brought their feast.

Grief no more shall still thy song,
Loss, privation, fortune dire!
Servants of air around thee throng
And touch thy singing lips with fire.

Love, art thou discomforted
In thy narrow lot to lie?
See! divinely thou art fed
By the creatures of the sky!