THE PAGEANT OF SUMMER 



hurls itself, and suddenly a fierce blast 

 tears the green oak leaves and whirls them 

 out into the fields; but the humble bee's 

 home, under moss and matted fibres, 

 remains uninjured. His house at the root 

 of the king of trees like a cave in the rock, 

 is safe. The storm passes and the sun 

 comes out, the air is the sweeter and the 

 richer for the rain, like verse with a rhyme; 

 there will be more honey in the flowers. 

 Humble he is, but wild; always in the 

 field, the wood ; always by the banks and 

 thickets ; always wild and humming to his 

 flowers. Therefore I like the humble bee, 

 being, at heart at least, for ever roaming 

 among the woodlands and the hills and 

 by the brooks. In such quick summer 

 storms the lightning gives the impression 

 of being far more dangerous than the 

 zig-zag paths traced on the autumn sky. 

 The electric cloud seems almost level with 

 the ground and the livid flame to rush to 

 and fro beneath the boughs as the little 

 bats do in the evening. 



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