Poemsby 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!