I, beekeeper, oft send my host of thoughts
out swarming, when the night stands glitt’ring clear
with world-flowers, which the Great Soul lets appear
and bloom, that visionary vast and fraught.
I’m strangely present in each one out there,
and cull eternal essence as they roam:
into my soul, a scent, a honeycomb,
the white rose found in Berenice’s hair.
The semi-conscious swarm my love lets stray
to star-beds bordering the Milky Way,
my peacock, mystic moth in night’s deep well:
they bring back to the hive their sacred load,
then from my words, both white and soft, they mould
and form my verse, cell next to starlight cell.