friendship poem

tell me not
the darkness steals the forms of all the queens
up from the meadows rich with corn
i saw with open eyes
when i returned at sunset
some one complained to the master
as i lie roofed in, screened in
at dawn, he said
o fair and stately maid, whose eyes
somewhere i read a strange, old, rusty tale
the air is like a butterfly
for then without
burly, dozing humble-bee
along the banks