I give leave, if not wishes in green,
Now are they spoilt, the brown flickers,
As bruised a leaf on drugged field enclose,
Now are their stems and petals it woes,
I then ask, why then are bees yea sicker?
Who then, if not my honey, is but sweet,
That golden sap, not from maple procured,
Delights those round the table come is tea,
How then the comb soaks slow till ere fed
Then excites sense till all ignorance led;
This much whilst yond wall and floor laid,
Lies dormant enslaved, a colony, it wept:
Is pollen then just a pollen to accept?
Why, my senses dull; my wings so numb,
Yet continue my work, like reeling pain,
Till one of mine will drop,
Till more are dropped,
Then I too am a drop
On lidless field,
The pollen call.

Nature, Poetry, Works
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