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Her public is the noon, |
Her providence the sun, |
Her progress by the bee proclaimed |
In sovereign, swerveless tune. |
The bravest of the host, |
Surrendering the last, |
Nor even of defeat aware |
When cancelled by the frost. |
XV. |
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. |
His labor is a chant, |
His idleness a tune; |
Oh, for a bee's experience |
Of clovers and of noon! |
XVI. |
Presentiment is that long shadow on the lawn |
Indicative that suns go down; |
The notice to the startled grass |
That darkness is about to pass. |
XVII. |
As children bid the guest good-night, |
And then reluctant turn, |
My flowers raise their pretty lips, |
Then put their nightgowns on. |
As children caper when they wake, |
Merry that it is morn, |
My flowers from a hundred cribs |
Will peep, and prance again. |
XVIII. |
Angels in the early morning |
May be seen the dews among, |
Stooping, plucking, smiling, flying: |
Do the buds to them belong? |
Angels when the sun is hottest |
May be seen the sands among, |
Stooping, plucking, sighing, flying; |
Parched the flowers they bear along. |
XIX. |
So bashful when I spied her, |
So pretty, so ashamed! |
So hidden in her leaflets, |
Lest anybody find; |
So breathless till I passed her, |
So helpless when I turned |
And bore her, struggling, blushing, |
Her simple haunts beyond! |
For whom I robbed the dingle, |
For whom betrayed the dell, |
Many will doubtless ask me, |
But I shall never tell! |
XX. |
TWO WORLDS. |
It makes no difference abroad, |
The seasons fit the same, |
The mornings blossom into noons, |
And split their pods of flame. |
Wild-flowers kindle in the woods, |
The brooks brag all the day; |
No blackbird bates his jargoning |
For passing Calvary. |
Auto-da-fe and judgment |
Are nothing to the bee; |
His separation from his rose |