Bee Master – Victoria Sackville West

I have known honey from the Syrian hills 

Stored in cool jars; the wild acacia there 

On the rough terrace where the locust shrills 

Tosses her spindrift on the ringing air. 

Narcissus bares his nectarous perianth 

In white and golden tabard to the sun, 

And while the workers rob the amaranth 

Or scarlet windflower low among the stone, 

Intent upon their crops, 

The Syrian queens mate in the high hot day 

Rapt visionaries of creative fray; 

Soaring from fecund ecstasy alone, 

And, through the blazing ether, drops 

Like a small thunderbolt the vindicated drone. 
But this is the bee-master’s reckoning 

In England. Walk among the hives and hear. 
Forget not bees in winter, though they sleep. 

For winter’s big with summer in her womb, 

And when you plant your rose-trees, plant them deep, 

Having regard to bushes all aflame, 

And see the dusky promise of their bloom 

In small red shoots, and let each redolent name- 

Tuscany, Crested Cabbage, Cottage Maid- 

Load with full June November’s dank repose, 

See the kind cattle drowsing in the shade, 

And hear the bee about his amorous trade 

Brown in the gipsy crimson of the rose. 
In February, if the days be clear, 

The waking bee, still drowsy on the wing, 

Will sense the opening of another year 

And blunder out to seek another spring. 

Crashing through winter sunlight’s pallid gold 

His clumsiness sets catkins on the willow 

Ashake like lambs’ tails in the early fold, 

Dusting with pollen all his brown and yellow, 

But when the rimy afternoon turns cold 

And undern squalls buffet the chilly fellow, 

He’ll seek the hive’s warm waxen welcoming 

And set about the chambers’ classic mould. 
And then, pell-mell, his harvest follows swift, 

Blossom and borage, lime and balm and clover, 

On Downs the thyme, on cliffs the scantling thrift, 

Everywhere bees go racing with the hours, 

For every bee becomes a drunken lover, 

Standing upon his head to sup the flowers, 

All over England, from Northumbrian coasts, 

To the wild sea-pink blown on Devon rocks. 

Over the merry southern gardens, over 

The grey-green bean-fields, round the Sussex oasts, 

Through the frilled spires of cottage hollyhocks, 

Go the big brown fat bees, and blunder in 

Where dusty spears of sunlight cleave the barn, 

And seek the sun again, and storm the whin, 

And in the warm meridian solitude 

Hum in the heather round the moorland tarn, 

Look, too, when summer hatches out the brood, 

In tardy May or early June, 

And the young queens are strong in the cocoon, 

Watch, if the days be warm, 

The flitting of the swarm. 

Follow, for if beyond your sight they stray 

Your bees are lost, and you must take your way 

Homeward disconsolate, but if you be at hand 

Then you may take your bees on strangers’ land. 

Have your skep ready, drowse them with, your smoke, 

Whether they cluster on the handy bough 

Or in the difficult hedge, be nimble now, 

For bees are captious folk 

And quick to turn against the lubber’s touch, 

But if you shake them to their wicker hutch 

Firmly, and turn towards the hive your skep, 

Into the hive the clustered thousands stream, 

Mounting the little slatted sloping step, 

A ready colony, queen, workers, drones, 

Patient to build again the waxen thrones 

For younger queens, and all the chambered cells 

For lesser brood, and all the immemorial scheme. 

And still they labour, though the hand of man 
Inscrutable and ravaging descend, 

Pillaging in their citadels, 

Defeating wantonly their provident plan, 

Making a havoc of their patient hoard; 

Still start afresh, not knowing to what end, 

Not knowing to what ultimate reward, 

Or what new ruin of the garnered hive 

The senseless god in man will send. 

Still their blind stupid industry will strive, 

Constructing for destruction pitiably, 

That still their unintelligible lord 

May reap his wealth from their calamity.