288 The Poets and Nature. 



" Sunday," when all else around bespeaks the seventh day, 

 the bee " hums in the clover," as if, from the contrasting 

 quiet of the fields and lanes, the absent cries of men at 

 work with their horses, of the shepherd and his dogs, the 

 creaking of deep-cutting wheels, the troubadour of the 

 flowers were in fuller voice. So too in Grahame's 

 "Sabbath." 

 It is Winter and 



" The bees in hives idly wait, 

 The call of early Spring." Cowper. 



A warm day in February tempts them forth : 



" Sometimes, deceived by promise premature 

 Of spring's approach, or pinched by empty combs, 

 Forth from the hive some straggling bees will peep, 

 And buzzing on the outside of their porch 

 Will try their wings, but not attempt to fly." Grahame. 



But Spring really comes : 



" Winter is past the little bee resumes 

 Her share of sun and shade, and o'er the lea 

 Hums her first hymnings to the flowers' perfumes, 

 And wakes a sense of gratefulness in me." Clare. 



" The empty bee, that lately bore 



Into the common measure all her store, 



Flies 'bout the painted fields with nimble wing, 



Deflow'ring the fresh virgins of the Spring." Carew. 



And so the Summer, " with its flowers and bees," when the 

 swarms " rush out in myriads and take wing," and moorland 

 and meadow and blossoming tree are musical with "the 

 murmuring of innumerable bees." 



The " wild " bee of poetry is the humble-bee. Some- 

 times it is specified by name, as in Clare's " drone of heavy 

 humble-bees," and Cowper's " drone-pipe of heavy humble 

 bees," and in Carew's voice of spring that " wakes in hollo\v 

 tree the drowsie Cuckow and the Humble-bee." 



