The Bee
By Emily Dickinson
Like trains of cars on tracks of plushI hear the level bee:A jar across the flowers goes,Their velvet masonry
Withstands until the sweet assaultTheir chivalry consumes,While he, victorious, tilts awayTo vanquish other blooms.
His feet are shod with gauze,His helmet is of gold;His breast, a single onyxWith chrysoprase, inlaid.
His labor is a chant,His idleness a tune;Oh, for a bee’s experienceOf clovers and of noon!
Fame is a bee. (1788)
