Thinking about ...
... bees

To make a prairie it takes a clover and one bee,

One clover, and a bee;

And reverie.

The reverie alone will do,

If bees are few

                                                                                                    Emily Dickinson

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When golden sun drives winter underground

And opens up the sky with summer light,

At once  they sally to the woods and fields,

Culling the brilliant flowers, and lightly sip

The margins of the stream. A strange delight

Impels them to make ready for their young.

They hammer out fresh wax and deftly mould

The sticky honey. When you see the host

Float skyward through the limpid summer air,

A cloud of darkness borne upon the wind,

Be sure of this: they seek a pleasant stream,

A leafy dwelling place.

                                                                                                                         Virgil: The Georgics Book 4

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These  children of the sun which summer brings

As pastoral minstrels in her merry train

Pipe rustic ballads upon busy wings

And glad the cotters' quiet toils again.....

.....Me much delighting as I stroll along

The narrow path that hay laid meadow yields,

Catching the windings of their wandering song.

                                                                                                 John Clare



How doth the little busy bee
Improve each shining hour,
And gather honey all the day
From every opening flower!

How skilfully she builds her cell!
How neat she spreads her wax!
And labours hard to store it well
With the sweet food she makes.

In works of labour or of skill,
I would be busy too;
For Satan finds some mischief still
For idle hands to do.

In books, or work, or healthful play
Let my first years be passed,
That I may give for every day
Some good account at last.

                                                                                                                       Isaac Watts


The pedigree of honey
Does not concern the bee;
A clover, any time, to him
Is aristocracy.

                                                                                                                                     Emily Dickinson
 

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