  Sometimes the sun, like a big bee Choosing the flowers he will bring to bloom, Dreams over my garden, So still the dust shines on his burning wings. And sometimes he swings away towards the evening star To fill his basket claws with night. Come morning he sprinkles darkness with his gold, Rubs legs together—I saw him do it— And there’s a purple larkspur tapering into rose And blood-red columbine,— It’s July then. Or the big bee finds a flaming dawn, Scours it with pollen from his back And there’s a poppy’s glossy wrinkled cup,— Then it’s June. At times he scoops the white crest off a wave Into the basket of his claws— I’ve seen the big bee skip upon the lake for joy— Then zi-ig! He’s back again Spreading some lilies by the sandy path, White with gold dashed on their lips Where he clings—the big bee—sucking. I know he’s there because the bells ring so: Seven lilies, then five, then four, I count them on their stems, A little running song of happiness,— It’s August then. But now he’s quiet. Some waste of gold in autumn leaves and fields, And gold upon the lake—pale leaf of drifting waters Cut by the wild duck’s close, sharp flight—frets him. For he must store in steep sky granaries much bannered gold With which to hang a hundred winter dawns and dusks. Still, he spares a little for my garden’s need, Spreading it in marigolds and frost,— It is September then,—October, too. The bee, the big bee, the burning bee Begins and ends in gold. In spring, knocking the snow from rosy apple bloom, He climbs the sky with fagots on his back To scatter them in yellow willow twigs and daffodils; And when he leaves my garden for his sleep, Flings daffodils along an evening sky,— It’s May then, and April, too. Some say there are no sky daffodils and no big bee. Pooh! I say the sun is a bee, a big bee, a burning bee, And bears the whole world’s wealth upon his back. What if he is a ruby humming bird betimes Or a saffron butterfly Or a gray-hooded moth at dusk! I’ve seen him when he was an emerald dragon fly About my little garden’s pool, But not for long. He has his mysteries. His winter’s cell of silver white has neither rose nor red nor gold. Who would not like the change?... I say the sun is a bee, a big bee, a burning bee, I know! |
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