The Queen-Bee Flies
High on the breeze flies the virgin-queen, queen of the hive!
Across the calm of skies and the cool of trees — she flies — she flies — swifter than all the others: and they follow, the passionate bees.
Over the green-gold stretch of wheat and rye, tangled and tied in the blue of vetch, over the riot of brown-gold brook and the quiet of brown-gold road — see the glint and gleam of her and the speckled cloud of drones in the cloudless sky as they chase and dream of her!
Hear the whirring song of the drones, the melody of their fevered wings — they stagger and fall, weaklings, despised:
They shall not know her, these louts of the honey-comb, crawling along the fields and ruts, still singing their heavy song!
For she has been fed on a flower-brewed wine, lore of the hive, store of the hive, she has been fed and bred a queen, she has piped to the bees in her sealed-up cell and heard them answer — leaving their work, the busy workers, running, swaying, dancing, drumming, to the tiny pipe of her coming!
Straight as a bird flies the virgin-queen, queen of the hive, and after her all that are fleet of wing:
Only they that are fleet of wing.
Only the strongest of all shall wed her,
Whirl with her,
Swirl with her,
High in the air;
Mate with her,
Mix with her,
Clasp and cling,
Fly with her,
Die of her,
There on the wing!
And out of the sky she slips like a falling star, for the flight is over: out of the sky drop the drones.
Over the medley of buds unsavored — briar-rose, daisy and blue-eyed grasses, even the pink-pointing clover, best-loved of the bees — the flight is over, the queen-bee passes.
Back to the hive now, bride and widow and queen, mother of all the hive to be; and the drones follow after — all save one.
There is a murmuring in the comb, a sound of singing, of bees' laughter, in the honey-comb: the workers welcome their quickened queen.
But after —
There is a roaring in the comb, a sound of shrilling, of bees' anger, in the honey-comb: the workers sting to death the useless drones.
For she will give to the hive its race, worker and drone as she will, lover of honey or lover of queen, she, the mother of all the hive.
But never again the flight! The mad, gay flight through the heart of June! Never again — never again —
The queen-bee flies but once.
Does she remember that bridal-height? Does she dream in her cell of the sun, of the drones' fierce song? Or the song of the swiftest drone of all, who dared to fly with her, dared to conquer her, dared to die of the pang supreme?
Does she dare to dream?
After the flight the long, long night of the hive. The queen-bee gives to the hive its race, worker and drone as she will: she seeks new hives as the old hives fill — her scouts will find them, in stranger-wood, in some hidden hollow — and the old bees follow, leaving the hive to the younger bees, the hive and the honey behind them.
Four summers — five summers perhaps — and then —
She knows the final flight of all.
La reine est morte! Vive la reine!
Vive la reine. — High on the breeze flies the virgin-queen, on young, gold wings — she flies — she flies — and they follow, the passionate bees!
*****
Autumn stands in her russet meadows — bursting thistle, fern and aster and goldenrod — where still a thousand, thousand bees buzz at the cup of summer's lees.
Carmelites of June, build high those waxen temples: they shall endure.
Fill them with the honey-souls of flowers, like saints in their dim niches: they will listen.
Fill them with the golden dew of all fields and of all times;
With a patient worship in the dusk of your celibate-cells;
With your low, slow song, praising — praising — eternity-long!
Across the calm of skies and the cool of trees — she flies — she flies — swifter than all the others: and they follow, the passionate bees.
Over the green-gold stretch of wheat and rye, tangled and tied in the blue of vetch, over the riot of brown-gold brook and the quiet of brown-gold road — see the glint and gleam of her and the speckled cloud of drones in the cloudless sky as they chase and dream of her!
Hear the whirring song of the drones, the melody of their fevered wings — they stagger and fall, weaklings, despised:
They shall not know her, these louts of the honey-comb, crawling along the fields and ruts, still singing their heavy song!
For she has been fed on a flower-brewed wine, lore of the hive, store of the hive, she has been fed and bred a queen, she has piped to the bees in her sealed-up cell and heard them answer — leaving their work, the busy workers, running, swaying, dancing, drumming, to the tiny pipe of her coming!
Straight as a bird flies the virgin-queen, queen of the hive, and after her all that are fleet of wing:
Only they that are fleet of wing.
Only the strongest of all shall wed her,
Whirl with her,
Swirl with her,
High in the air;
Mate with her,
Mix with her,
Clasp and cling,
Fly with her,
Die of her,
There on the wing!
And out of the sky she slips like a falling star, for the flight is over: out of the sky drop the drones.
Over the medley of buds unsavored — briar-rose, daisy and blue-eyed grasses, even the pink-pointing clover, best-loved of the bees — the flight is over, the queen-bee passes.
Back to the hive now, bride and widow and queen, mother of all the hive to be; and the drones follow after — all save one.
There is a murmuring in the comb, a sound of singing, of bees' laughter, in the honey-comb: the workers welcome their quickened queen.
But after —
There is a roaring in the comb, a sound of shrilling, of bees' anger, in the honey-comb: the workers sting to death the useless drones.
For she will give to the hive its race, worker and drone as she will, lover of honey or lover of queen, she, the mother of all the hive.
But never again the flight! The mad, gay flight through the heart of June! Never again — never again —
The queen-bee flies but once.
Does she remember that bridal-height? Does she dream in her cell of the sun, of the drones' fierce song? Or the song of the swiftest drone of all, who dared to fly with her, dared to conquer her, dared to die of the pang supreme?
Does she dare to dream?
After the flight the long, long night of the hive. The queen-bee gives to the hive its race, worker and drone as she will: she seeks new hives as the old hives fill — her scouts will find them, in stranger-wood, in some hidden hollow — and the old bees follow, leaving the hive to the younger bees, the hive and the honey behind them.
Four summers — five summers perhaps — and then —
She knows the final flight of all.
La reine est morte! Vive la reine!
Vive la reine. — High on the breeze flies the virgin-queen, on young, gold wings — she flies — she flies — and they follow, the passionate bees!
*****
Autumn stands in her russet meadows — bursting thistle, fern and aster and goldenrod — where still a thousand, thousand bees buzz at the cup of summer's lees.
Carmelites of June, build high those waxen temples: they shall endure.
Fill them with the honey-souls of flowers, like saints in their dim niches: they will listen.
Fill them with the golden dew of all fields and of all times;
With a patient worship in the dusk of your celibate-cells;
With your low, slow song, praising — praising — eternity-long!
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