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.
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