The Swarming of the Bees

Who can tell the hiding of the white bees' nest?Who can trace the guiding of their swift home flight?Far would be his riding on a life-long quest:Surely ere it ended would his beard grow white.

Never in the coming of the rose-red Spring,Never in the passing of the wine-red Fall,May you hear the humming of the white bee's wingMurmur o'er the meadow ere the night bells call.

Wait till winter hardens in the cold gray sky,Wait till leaves are fallen and the brooks all freeze,Then above the gardens where the dead flowers lie,Swarm the merry millions of the wild white bees.

Out of the high-built airy hive,Deep in the clouds that veil the sun,Look how the first of the swarm arrive;Timidly venturing, one by one,Down through the tranquil air,Wavering here and there,Large, and lazy in flight,--Caught by a lift of the breeze,Tangled among the naked trees,--Dropping then, without a sound,Feather-white, feather-light,To their rest on the ground.

Thus the swarming is begun.Count the leaders, every onePerfect as a perfect starTill the slow descent is done.Look beyond them, see how farDown the vistas dim and gray,Multitudes are on the way.Now a sudden brightnessDawns within the sombre day,Over fields of whiteness;And the sky is swiftly aliveWith the flutter and the flightOf the shimmering bees, that pourFrom the hidden door of the hiveTill you can count no more.

Now on the branches of hemlock and pineThickly they settle and cluster and swing,Bending them low; and the trellised vineAnd the dark elm-boughs are traced with a lineOf beauty wherever the white bees cling.Now they are hiding the wrecks of the flowers,Softly, softly, covering all,Over the grave of the summer hoursSpreading a silver pall.Now they are building the broad roof ledge,Into a cornice smooth and fair,Moulding the terrace, from edge to edge,Into the sweep of a marble stair.Wonderful workers, swift and dumb,Numberless myriads, still they come,Thronging ever faster, faster, faster!Where is their queen? Who is their master?The gardens are faded, the fields are frore,--What is the honey they toil to storeIn the desolate day, where no blossoms gleam?Forgetfulness and a dream!

But now the fretful wind awakes;I hear him girding at the trees;He strikes the bending boughs, and shakesThe quiet clusters of the beesTo powdery drift;He tosses them away,He drives them like spray;He makes them veer and shiftAround his blustering path.In clouds blindly whirling,In rings madly swirling,Full of crazy wrath,So furious and fast they flyThey blur the earth and blot the skyIn wild, white mirk.They fill the air with frozen wingsAnd tiny, angry, icy stings;They blind the eyes, and choke the breath,They dance a maddening dance of deathAround their work,Sweeping the cover from the hill,Heaping the hollows deeper still,Effacing every line and mark,And swarming, storming in the darkThrough the long night;Until, at dawn, the wind lies downWeary of fight;The last torn cloud, with trailing gown,Passes the open gates of light;And the white bees are lost in flight.

Look how the landscape glitters wide and still,Bright with a pure surprise!The day begins with joy, and all past ill,Buried in white oblivion, liesBeneath the snow-drifts under crystal skies.New hope, new love, new life, new cheer,Flow in the sunrise beam,--The gladness of Apollo when he sees,Upon the bosom of the wintry year,The honey-harvest of his wild white bees,Forgetfulness and a dream!