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 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,
        Multitudes 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 shimmering 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 cluster 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!