Poems (Curwen)/The Queen Bee

by Annie Isabel Curwen

The Queen Bee.

The good Queen sits in her easy chair,
 On her lips I see a dreamy smile,
As she glances at the papers near—
 The children's papers—a goodly pile;
And tender thoughts are in her heart
 As she scans each youthful writer's name,
Picturing to herself, in part,
 The dear young aspirants to fame.
Perchance she thinks of a future year,
 When the writers are men and women grown,
And names that now in her "corner" appear
 May have a significance all their own;
Names that first were proudly seen
 In the "Children's Columns," when
Ambition first was born, I ween,
 In the hearts of the little women and men.
And she thinks, maybe, of years ago,
 When she was as eager for the fight;
And her heart is full as she thinks also
 Of the disappointed ones to-night.
She knows how hard it is to climb;
 She knows how false are the hopes of youth;
And she knows that there will come a time
 When her dear young people will prove its truth
And so with a sigh she turns once more
 To the pile of papers lying there,
For she knows that when her task is o'er
 The few will rejoice, the many despair.
But all the dear writers have done their best
 She knows, and a feeling akin to pain
Stirs the Queen Bee's kindly breast,
 As she thinks of the efforts made in vain.
But "something attempted, something done,"
 Is hot labour lost, though it win no prize;
For each effort made—the feeblest one—
 Is the voice of the soul, which bids us rise;
And there are higher heights than fame—
 A fairer and a richer goal—
And every lofty thought and aim
 Means the progression of the soul.