The Swarm 



that for day after day a strange emotion, 

 apparently without cause, will appear and 

 vanish in this transparent, golden throng. 

 Has a cloud that we cannot see crept 

 across the sky that the bees are watching ; 

 or is their intellect battling with a new 

 regret ? Does a winged council debate 

 the necessity of the departure ? Of this 

 we know nothing ; as we know nothing 

 of the manner in which the spirit conveys 

 its resolution to the crowd. Certain as 

 it may seem that the bees communicate 

 with each other, we know not whether 

 this be done in human fashion. It is 

 possible even that their own refrain may 

 be inaudible to them : the murmur that 

 comes to us heavily laden with perfume 

 of honey, the ecstatic whisper of fairest 

 summer days that the bee-keeper loves so 

 well, the festival song of labour that rises 

 and falls around the hive in the crystal 

 of the hour, and might almost be the 



53 



