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 
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