The Bee

Like the bee, we buzz, in numbers warranted, yet partial—by light shadows and detail unfold. How free we manage though tied, artful, yielding.

There is labor yet among disdain— a crowd, drifting ooze sticks, chance from crusts, finally sanctuary, these pale spots, carved to length— askew with songs, yet ship the sing of fowl. Through noisy hums we weave, ay, sting without bird, moral yet clear.

Baby faces pass, laugh behind vases, where something else migrates; precisely our heads hang low, yet lifted loose, borne poise— your beauty arrives above; new directions keep our rates conscious, we sway as winged waves beneath—

trust the flight through bends or darting scope—blue shoots leave your pass in tune to shape. Still dainty as pearls piled in crisp and soft crusts; alive spun around, like puzzled pin-balling arcs; you wrap along in light!

• Marianne Moore