Bee Poetry
" And then pell-mell his harvest follows swift
Blossom and Borage, lime and balm and clover
On downs the thyme, on cliffs the scantling thrift
Everywhere the bees go racing with the hours
For every bee becomes a drunken lover
Standing upon his head to sup the flowers
The Land (V.Sackville West)
The pedigree of honey
Does not concern the bee
A clover,at any time,to him
Is aristocracy.
Emily Dickenson.
With merry hum the Willow^d copse they scale,
The Fir^s dark pyramid, or Poplaar pale;
The waft their nut-brown loads exulting home,
That form a fret-work for the future comb,
Caulk every chink where rushing winds may roar,
And seal their circling ramparts to the floor.
JOHN EVANS, The Bees.
Blaw, blaw ye wastin winds, blaw soft
Among the leafy trees,
With gentle gale from hill and dale
Bring hame the laden bees.
Robert Burns, o a the airts.
The careful insect midst his works I view,
Now from the flowers exhaust the fragrant dew,
With golden treasures load his little thighs,
And steer his distant journey through the skies.
John Gay, Rural Sports
Midwinter Hive
On that sparkling sheet of white,
I spy a lesser-white --a hive,
The wind howls; the cold numbs
But inside, countless creatures cling
To one another; waiting,
Waiting for the first signs of spring,
That once more they might reap,
For man and bee, with buzzing wing.Alan Ratcliffe.