Emily Dickinson

The Honey Bee

the honey bee is sad and crossand wicked as a weaseland when she berches on you bossshe leaves a little measelDon Marquis from archy and mehitable

Combinations

A flea flew by a bee. The beeTo flee the flea flew by a fly.The fly flew high to flee the beeWho flew to flee the flea who flewTo flee the fly who now flew by.The bee flew by the fly. The flyTo flee the bee flew by the flea.The flea flew high to flee the flyWho flew to flee the bee who flewTo flee the flea who now flew by.The fly flew by the flea. The fleaTo flee the fly flew by the bee.The bee flew high to flee the fleaWho flew to flee the fly who flewTo flee the bee who now flew by.The flea flew by the fly. The flyTo flee the flea flew by the bee.The bee flew high to flee the flyWho flew to flee the flea who flewTo flee the bee who now flew by.The fly flew by the bee. The beeTo flee the fly flew by the flea.The flea flew high to flee the beeWho flew to flee the fly who flewTo flee the flea who now flew by.The bee flew by the flea. The fleaTo flee the bee flew by the fly.The fly flew high to flee the fleaWho flew to flee the bee who flewTo flee the fly who now flew by. A swarm of bees in MayIs worth a load of hay.A swarm of bees in June Is worth a silver spoonA swarm of bees in JulyIs not worth a fly.PROVERBS:

sy as a bee."

"What is good for the swarm is not good for the bee."

"Where there is honey, there are bees."

"One bee is better than a handful of flies."

"Honey turns sour."

"The diligence of the hive produces the wealth of honey."

"A drop of honey will not sweeten the ocean."

"If you want to gather honey, don't kick over the beehive."

The poem and proverbs are from Insect Fact and Folklore , by Lucy W. Clausen. Published by Collier Books, N.Y., 1954.

expecting you!Was saying yesterdayTo someone you knowThat you were due.The frogs got home last week,Are settled, and at work;Birds, mostly back,The clover warm and thick.You'll get my letter byThe seventeenth; replyOr better, be with me,Yours, Fly.Emily Dickinson

Pedigree

The pedigree of honey

Who are these people at the bridge to meet me? They are the villagersThe rector, the midwife, the sexton, the agent for bees.In my sleeveless summery dress I have no protection,And they are all gloved and covered, why did nobody tell me?They are smiling and taking out veils tacked to ancient hats.

I am nude as a chicken neck, does nobody love me?Yes, here is the secretary of bees with her white shop smock,Buttoning the cuffs at my wrists and the slit from my neck to my knees.Now I am milkweed silk, the bees will not notice.Thev will not smell my fear, my fear, my fear.

Which is the rector now, is it that man in black?Which is the midwife, is that her blue coat?Everybody is nodding a square black head, they are knights in visors,Breastplates of cheesecloth knotted under the armpits.Their smiles and their voices are changing. I am led through a beanfield.

Strips of tinfoil winking like people,Feather dusters fanning their hands in a sea of bean flowers,Creamy bean flowers with black eyes and leaves like bored hearts.Is it blood clots the tendrils are dragging up that string?No, no, it is scarlet flowers that will one day be edible.

Now they are giving me a fashionable white straw Italian hatAnd a black veil that molds to my face, they are making me one of them.They are leading me to the shorn grove, the circle of hives.Is it the hawthorn that smells so sick?The barren body of hawthorn, etherizing its children.

Is it some operation that is taking place?It is the surgeon my neighbors are waiting for,This apparition in a green helmet,Shining gloves and white suit.Is it the butcher, the grocer, the postman, someone I kno

is dark, dark,With the swarmy feeling of African handsMinute and shrunk for export,Black on black, angrily clambering.

How can I let them out?It is the noise that appals me most of all,The unintelligible syllables.It is like a Roman mob,Small, taken one by one, but my god, together!

I lay my ear to furious Latin.I am not a Caesar.I have simply ordered a box of maniacs.They can be sent back.They can die, I need feed them nothing, I am the owner.

I wonder how hungry they are.I wonder if they would forget meIf I just undid the locks and stood back and turned into a tree.

There is the laburnum, its blond colonnades,And the petticoats of the cherry.

They might ignore me immediatelyIn my moon suit and funeral veil.I am no source of honeySo why should they turn on me?

Bless the beekeeper

who chooses for her hivesa site near water, violet beds, no yew,no echo. Let the light lilt, leak, greenor gold, pigment for queens,and joy be inexplicable but therein harmony of willowherb and stream,of summer heat and breeze,

bees bodyat its brilliant flower, lover-stunned,strumming on fragrance, smitten.

For this,let gardens grow, where beelines end,sighing in roses, saffron blooms, buddleia;