They murmur, the children, like bees in summer
in a hot garden, like bees in a cup,
and, like light through branches, now gay, now dimmer,
thought touches a face that is lifted up.
My bees, with the pollen under your feet,
when the thought we shared is no longer alive,
will aught that we dreamed of together be sweet,
will there be honey of ours in the hive?
It is dark in the hive. There is fear, there is shame,
there are tears, and ugliness unto death.
Sweet thieves of the sun, must it still be the same,
or will not the flowers you rifled bequeath
a glimpse of the vision you saw at my knees,
when the teacher was taught by the Keeper of Bees?
--Humbert Wolfe, in Requiem, 1927.
this book has a story. but doesn't everything.
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