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!
Credits
Emily Dickinson was a 19th-century American poet whose intensely observed, often unconventional verse earned her a place among the most influential writers in the English language. She published very little during her lifetime, yet left behind nearly 1,800 poems discovered after her death. "The Bee" showcases her gift for rendering the miniature world of nature with almost lapidary precision, adorning a single insect with the language of gemstones and chivalric combat.
