Emily Dickinson — The Bee

Like trains of cars on tracks of plush I hear the level bee A jar across the flowers goes Their velvet masonry Withstands until the sweet assault Their chivalry consumes While he, victorious, tilts away To vanquish other blooms His feet are shod with gauze His helmet is of gold His breast, a single onyx With chrysoprase, inlaid His labor is a chant His idleness a tune Oh, for a bee's experience Of clovers and of noon!