Classic Poem

From some far home I brought a swarm of bees,
Old honey-makers hiving in my brain:
They find the small, green flowers of the trees,
And the one poppy idling in the grain;

The sun is shepherd to my heedless flocks;
In vain I bid them forage or be still:
Their drunken wings sing down the solemn clocks
Fanning the flowers upon some timeless hill.

No stretch of stony path, nor bitter seas,
But must yield up some blossom, white or red,
Some nectar-throated anguish, for my bees —
I shall have honey, though I starve for bread.