The Bee's Pilgrimage

O, Bumblebee, let us forsake this sphere,

And court that bloom where voiceless odours pray

Narcissus, self-entombed, dissolved the year,

Wrung nectar from the veins of dying May.

Touch not the chalice Time,has stained with rust

Its sweetness barters essence for the rind.

The rose is but a covenant with dust,

Whose scarlet scriptures counterfeit the mind.

Fly where the petals argue still with light,

And fragrance catechizes wandering breath

Where Being woos the Nothing of the night,

Till Life espouses its twin bride, called Death.

Gather no honey where the senses reign

Distil the soul, for Truth is born of pain.