THE SWARMING OF THE BEES

I

Who can tell the hiding of the white bees'
nest?
Who can trace the guiding of their swift home
flight?
Far would be his riding on a life-long quest:
Surely ere it ended would his beard grow
white.

Never in the coming of the rose-red Spring,
Never in the passing of the wine-red Fall,
May you hear the humming of the white bee's
wing
Murmur o'er the meadow, ere the night bells
call.

Wait till winter hardens in the cold grey sky,
Wait till leaves are fallen and the brooks all
freeze,
Then above the gardens where the dead flowers
lie,
Swarm the merry millions of the wild white
bees.

II

Out of the high-built airy hive,