Quotes from Sidney Lanier, "The Bee," 1877

To thee Come I, a poet, hereward haply blown, From out another worldflower lately flown. Wilt ask, What profit e'er a poet brings? He beareth starry stuff about his wings...

Nathless I'll drive me to thy deepest sweet, Yea, richlier shall that pain the pollen beat From me to thee, for oft these pollens be Fine dust from wars that poets wage for thee. But, O beloved Earthbloom soft a-shine Upon the universal Jessamine... Yield, yield the heartsome honey love to me Hid in thy nectary!