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EVENING.
And he shall sing how, once upon a time, the great chest prisoned the living goatherd by his lord’s infatuate and evil will, and how the blunt-faced bees, as they came up from the meadow to the fragrant cedar-chest, fed him with food of tender flowers because the Muse still dropped sweet nectar on his lips.—THEOCRITUS.

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 with their 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, privations, fortunes dire!
Servants of air about thee throng,
And touch thy singing lips with fire.

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