Wild Bees

You drink from ivory goblets held in a jasper pool, And dine from crimson moss-bells on the north side of a tree; On globes of misted clover when the violet dawn is cool, You swing in ecstacy.

You know the tiny honey-horns a-drop from many a vine, And the sweet of tasselled grasses no man may ever reap; On lace of elderberry bloom of marvellous design You sometimes deign to sleep.

You haunt the tangled water-weeds where purple iris grow And greet the moth of silver-grey, or the emerald dragon fly; But the shadow only falls on you;—you only, dimly know That summer passes by.

And so you store your amber sweets in a deep enchanted spot And keep your immemorial Law whose source is from afar, You fling no questions at the moon—but work and wonder not That things are as they are.

When Indian summer winds her gauzy veil around the hill, One day you drowse in some belated poppy's painted cup, Then fold your iridescent wings, and lie exceeding still, And never more wake up.