January, 1918 



GLEANINGS IN BEE CULTURE 



33 



Beauty In a Bulletin. 



Oh I have road a thin<^ of wonder! 



Not all the type and all the words could sunder 



The beauty from the fact ; 



Nor all the scientific phrases, so exact 



And prosy, hide the glowing thing 



They told and I would sing. 



(For did you think 



The beauty of a story lay within the ink ? 



It may — where words become an art. 



But deep in ereru pnare there is a heart, 



And in the heart the beauty lies. 



For tho the words you read. 



Discuss in dry unsmiling ways. 



Dry wherefores and dull whys, 



Let but your stalwart vision lead 



A swift trail thru the maze 



Of logic and instruction — and behold — 



Some young, sweet, old. 



Undying beauty at the heart of things, 



Wliere beauty always sings ! ) 



This tale of wonder that I read today 



Within a printed pamphlet lay. 



Called "^Yintering of Bees." 



Practical the prol lems treated. 



With scientific, up-to-date experiments repeated — 



Prosy pages, these! 



For see — • 



Among the words that spoke to me 



Were — insulation , 



Ventilation, 



Heat production, stimuli, 



Observation, 



Variation, 



Thermal jrinrtions — ivhere and why; 



Schematic curves, and amplitude, 



Minima and maxima, 



Bee behavior, time of brood. 



Theory, phenomena. 



But had you thought 



Such heavy woid.s mere lifeless things? 



Not if you sought 



The truth that science tells; 



For in the haunt where proud truth dwells 



There beauty a'so dwells and sings. 



So as I read, my bulletin became 



A sudden light, and in the flame 



Was beauty! And I saw 



The wonder and the miracle of law. 



The tragic hours 



Stood at salule an instant while I went 



In sudden fane; , with intent 



And visioning powers. 



Back, down the ages. 



There primeval bees 



Within dark winter's hollow trees 



Clustered, as these my so-called prosy pages 



Tell me today. 



And so, in far-off future times. 



In this same way 



Shall tees be clustering still. 



While I, with all my dreaming rhymes, 



Lie sleeping on a hill. 



(O you who love me, let it be a hill!) 



The waiting hours unbend 



.To go about their grim relentless work ; 



They cannot shirk 



Their going-on to some great end. 

 For all my visioning and dream. 

 But now acro-ss their murky red I seem. 

 Where khaki-colored waves advance. 

 To see quaint skeps in broken lines 

 Beneath the brittle, war-torn vines 

 Of Flanders and of France; 

 And in each skep my fancy sees 

 The closely clustered bees. 



Where England's ancient groves of oak 



Spread mighty arms ; 



On little wistful German farms 



(Ah! once that name we spoke 



With thoughts of learning and great song. 



But now — O God, how long?); 



Where goatherds dwell in Alpine passes; 



Across unending plains of Russian gi-asses ; 



On wide Canadian fields that sweep 



Down from the north and help to keep 



With us. the border line of old; 



Wherever winter's grisley, cold. 



Unwelcome hand 



Has gripped a land — 



Ours, or these other lands afar — 



There in their hives or hollow trees 



Cluster the bees — 



How old and wise they are ! 



(And yet themselves, not old at all 



Beyond their few short weeks of sun and flower — 



Nor wise perhaps ; but what then shall I call 



Their heritage of power?) 



High within the gloom 



Of their hushed and fragrant room. 



Rise mystically molded waxen towers. 



Within whose rows of vaulted treasure cells 



Are hid the mingled essences and haunting smells 



Of perished flowers. 



Here hang the bees, clustered the self-same way 



They clustered ages past. 



Uncounted tiny bodies move and sway, 



Now slow, now fast ; 



Wings keep their strange incessant beat. 



And from the center of the ball 



To the last concentric wall 



Issiles the living heat. 



The places change; some enter, some pass out; 



The vibrant sphere forever moves about 



Within itself; and if some winter day 



Grows mild and \\arm, it breaks away, 



And some one in his native speech that night 



Remarks, "The bees were flying round today a 



while — 

 Thev dragged the dead ones out — there's quite a 



■ pil^^ 

 I guess they all were glad to have a flight." 



Then Lack they come together, 



Ag:',in to cluster, week on week of frozen weather. 



Sometimes they faintly hum — 



I wonder if they know that some day spring must 



I ] ; surely come. 



O bulletin of grave instructive prose, 



Today I have dived under 



Your words and very facts, and found the heart 



you hide, 

 A heart where deathless beauty grows 

 And there is dream and wonder, 

 And on the mystery of life a far gate opens wide. 



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