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!

--Emily Dickinson

I simply adore Emily Dickinson's poety-- she deftly weaves a wondrous picture of our world with words, selectively crafting her thoughts into the poetry we read today. And bees are really cool too-- more about that later!