Your browser version is outdated. We recommend that you update your browser to the latest version.

The Bee

Like trains of cars on tracks of plush
I hear the level bee:
A jar across the flowers goes,
Their velvet masonry

Withstands until the sweet assault
Their chivalry consumes,
While he, victorious, tilts away
To vanquish other blooms.

His feet are shod with gauze,
His helmet is of gold;
His breast, a single onyx
With chrysoprase, inlaid.


XCVII

To make a prairie it takes a clover and one bee, -
One clover, and a bee,
And revery.
The revery alone will do
If bees are few.
His labor is a chant,
His idleness a tune;
Oh, for a bee’s experience
Of clovers and of noon!

Poems by Emily Dickenson