Yet I dream that somewhere, clad in downy whiteness, dwell the
honey-makers,
In aerial gardens that no mortal sees:
And at times returning, lo, they flutter round us, gathering mystic
harvest,--
So I weave the legend of the long-lost bees.
II
THE SWARMING OF THE BEES
Who can tell the hiding of the white bees' nest?
Who can trace the guiding of their swift home flight?
Far would be his riding on a life-long quest:
Surely ere it ended would his beard grow white.
Never in the coming of the rose-red Spring,
Never in the passing of the wine-red Fall,
May you hear the humming of the white bee's wing
Murmur o'er the meadow ere the night bells call.
Wait till winter hardens in the cold gray sky,
Wait till leaves are fallen and the brooks all freeze,
Then above the gardens where the dead flowers lie,
Swarm the merry millions of the wild white bees.
Out of the high-built airy hive,
Deep in the clouds that veil the sun,
Look how the first of the swarm arrive;
Timidly venturing, one by one,
Down through the tranquil air,
Wavering here and there,
Large, and lazy in flight,--
Caught by a lift of the breeze,
Tangled among the naked trees,--
Dropping then, without a sound,
Feather-white, feather-light,
To their rest on the ground.
Pages:
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93