The Bee
by: Emily Dickinson
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!
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