Poemsby Emily Dickinson



 The nearest dream recedes, unrealized.       The heaven we chase       Like the June bee       Before the school-boy       Invites the race;       Stoops to an easy clover - Dips - evades - teases - deploys;       Then to the royal clouds       Lifts his light pinnace       Heedless of the boy Staring, bewildered, at the mocking sky. 
       Homesick for steadfast honey,       Ah! the bee flies not That brews that rare variety.