Part 13 (1/2)

Mournfully bewailing,--”Ah, my honey-makers, where have you departed?”

Far and wide he sought them over sea and sh.o.r.e; Foolish is the tale that says he ever found them, brought them home in triumph,-- Joys that once escape us fly for evermore.

Yet I dream that somewhere, clad in downy whiteness, dwell the honey-makers, In aerial gardens that no mortal sees: And at times returning, lo, they flutter round us, gathering mystic harvest,-- So I weave the legend of the long-lost bees.

II

THE SWARMING OF THE BEES

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 pa.s.sing 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 gray 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.

Out of the high-built airy hive, Deep in the clouds that veil the sun, Look how the first of the swarm arrive; Timidly venturing, one by one, Down through the tranquil air, Wavering here and there, Large, and lazy in flight,-- Caught by a lift of the breeze, Tangled among the naked trees,-- Dropping then, without a sound, Feather-white, feather-light, To their rest on the ground.

Thus the swarming is begun.

Count the leaders, every one Perfect as a perfect star Till the slow descent is done.

Look beyond them, see how far Down the vistas dim and gray, Mult.i.tudes are on the way.

Now a sudden brightness Dawns within the sombre day, Over fields of whiteness; And the sky is swiftly alive With the flutter and the flight Of the s.h.i.+mmering bees, that pour From the hidden door of the hive Till you can count no more.

Now on the branches of hemlock and pine Thickly they settle and cl.u.s.ter and swing, Bending them low; and the trellised vine And the dark elm-boughs are traced with a line Of beauty wherever the white bees cling.

Now they are hiding the wrecks of the flowers, Softly, softly, covering all, Over the grave of the summer hours Spreading a silver pall.

Now they are building the broad roof ledge, Into a cornice smooth and fair, Moulding the terrace, from edge to edge, Into the sweep of a marble stair.

Wonderful workers, swift and dumb, Numberless myriads, still they come, Thronging ever faster, faster, faster!

Where is their queen? Who is their master?

The gardens are faded, the fields are frore,-- What is the honey they toil to store In the desolate day, where no blossoms gleam?

_Forgetfulness and a dream!_

But now the fretful wind awakes; I hear him girding at the trees; He strikes the bending boughs, and shakes The quiet cl.u.s.ters of the bees To powdery drift; He tosses them away, He drives them like spray; He makes them veer and s.h.i.+ft Around his bl.u.s.tering path.

In clouds blindly whirling, In rings madly swirling, Full of crazy wrath, So furious and fast they fly They blur the earth and blot the sky In wild, white mirk.

They fill the air with frozen wings And tiny, angry, icy stings; They blind the eyes, and choke the breath, They dance a maddening dance of death Around their work, Sweeping the cover from the hill, Heaping the hollows deeper still, Effacing every line and mark, And swarming, storming in the dark Through the long night; Until, at dawn, the wind lies down Weary of fight; The last torn cloud, with trailing gown, Pa.s.ses the open gates of light; And the white bees are lost in flight.

Look how the landscape glitters wide and still, Bright with a pure surprise!

The day begins with joy, and all past ill, Buried in white oblivion, lies Beneath the snow-drifts under crystal skies.

New hope, new love, new life, new cheer, Flow in the sunrise beam,-- The gladness of Apollo when he sees, Upon the bosom of the wintry year, The honey-harvest of his wild white bees, _Forgetfulness and a dream!_

III

LEGEND

Listen, my beloved, while the silver morning, like a tranquil vision, Fills the world around us and our hearts with peace; Quiet is the close of Aristaeus' legend, happy is the ending-- Listen while I tell you how he found release.

Many months he wandered far away in sadness, desolately thinking Only of the vanished joys he could not find; Till the great Apollo, pitying his shepherd, loosed him from the burden Of a dark, reluctant, backward-looking mind.