The Bee
What time I paced, at pleasant morn,A deep and dewy wood,I heard a mellow hunting-hornMake dim report of Dian’s lustihoodFar down a heavenly hollow.Mine ear, though fain, had pain to follow:`Tara!’ it twanged, `tara-tara!’ it blew,Yet wavered oft, and flewMost ficklewise about, or here, or there,A music now from earth and now from air.But on a sudden, lo!I marked a blossom shiver to and froWith dainty inward storm; and there withinA down-drawn trump of yellow jessamineA beeThrust up its sad-gold body lustily,All in a honey madness hotly boundOn blissful burglary.A cunning soundIn that wing-music held me: down I layIn amber shades of many a golden spray,Where looping low with languid arms the VineIn wreaths of ravishment did overtwineHer kneeling Live-Oak, thousand-fold to plightHerself unto her own true stalwart knight.
As some dim blur of distant music nearsThe long-desiring sense, and slowly clearsTo forms of time and apprehensive tune,So, as I lay, full soonInterpretation throve: the bee’s fanfare,Through sequent films of discourse vague as air,Passed to plain words, while, fanning faint perfume,The bee o’erhung a rich, unrifled bloom:“O Earth, fair lordly Blossom, soft a-shineUpon the star-pranked universal vine,Hast nought for me?To theeCome I, a poet, hereward haply blown,From out another worldflower lately flown.Wilt ask, `What profit e’er a poet brings?’He beareth starry stuff about his wingsTo pollen thee and sting thee fertile: nay,If still thou narrow thy contracted way,—Worldflower, if thou refuse me——Worldflower, if thou abuse me,And hoist thy stamen’s spear-point highTo wound my wing and mar mine eye—Nathless I’ll drive me to thy deepest sweet,Yea, richlier shall that pain the pollen beatFrom me to thee, for oft these pollens beFine dust from wars that poets wage for thee.But, O beloved Earthbloom soft a-shineUpon the universal Jessamine,Prithee, abuse me not,Prithee, refuse me not,Yield, yield the heartsome honey love to meHid in thy nectary!”And as I sank into a dimmer dreamThe pleading bee’s song-burthen sole did seem:“Hast ne’er a honey-drop of love for meIn thy huge nectary?”
Tampa, Florida, 1877.