Quotes About Bees

our investigation led us to discover was that at the peak of the battle the Jewish soldiers owed their success less to their courage than to the sudden arrival of a most unusual ally: a swarm of bees, infuriated by the smell of gunpowder, descended on the helpless Arab legionnaires and forced them to abandon their dominating position above the monastery.

My mother was always in the center of her own agitation, seeming as though, far away, part of her was being chased along a dirt road by a swarm of bees.

despair, he left that farm and came to Bone Gap when it was a huge expanse of empty fields, drawn here by the grass and the bees and the strange sensation that this was a magical place, that the bones of the world were a little looser here, double-jointed, twisting back on themselves, leaving spaces one could slip into and hide.

A collection of legends exist that are well-known in Armenia and Syria. This collection is entitled: 'The Bees.' The legends were later revised by Mar Salamon, a Nestorian Archimandrite who lived in the thirteenth century, Possibly the collection of legends refers to a mysterious energy transmitted in symbolic design from the time of Zoroaster.

Bees are a recurring symbol of the Merovingians and the humming or buzzing sound of bees is likened to supersensible "sounds" experienced by many Sufis as they enter spirit realms.

July is not only a season of the year; it is a season of the mind and memory. Hot days and sultry nights and crashing thunderstorms are a part of July, and to the drone of bees in the clover fields will soon be added the high-pitched sibilance of the cicada. The tang of ripe cherries and the sweetness of sunning hay...

Ah, lovely June, thy sunny days are here, The world seems gayer for thy coming; The glad birds sing their shrill and tender songs, And all day long the bees are humming. All fairest things are of thyself a part: Ah, lovely June, so sweet thou art!...

poetry leafs out like trees words rustle in the breeze punctuate — birds & bees

The pollen-dusted bees Search for the honey-lees That linger in the last flowers of September, While plaintive mourning doves Coo sadly to their loves Of the dead summer they so well remember.

For Trisha The truth's in myth not fact, a story fragment or an act that lasts and stands for all: how bees made honey in a skull.

The bees are very attentive to the flowers until their honey is done, and then they fly over them. I don't know if the flowers feel grateful to the bees, they are great fools if they do.

It was a peaceful scene in the little garden. The heat was trapped there, reflected off the soft, flaky red brick of the walls, and the air was drowsy with the sound of bees, attracted by the marigolds and lavender which had been planted there to fetch them; for fruit will not be born without the bee, and the garden was given over to fruit. All

The universe isn't a spinning wheel. It is a cloud of bees flying and veering round. Thank goodness for that, for we were getting drunk on the spinning wheel.

The new wallpaper looks pretty," she called out to me. The back-door screen made a veil for her face. "What are you doing out there by the ash can?" "Nothing," I told her. Bees were in the grass and the afternoon sun warmed my face and arms. I had just found the mint.

It seemed as alive in its dying as a hive of bees was in its life.

Hundreds of stars in the pretty sky; Hundreds of shells on the shore together; Hundreds of birds that go singing by; Hundreds of bees in the sunny weather. Hundreds of dew-drops to greet the dawn; Hundreds of lambs in the purple clover; Hundreds of butterflies on the lawn; But only one mother the wide world over!

Look at nature. A single bee cannot really do much. But you put a group of bees together and they can form a hive. A colony of bees that work in harmony. Each one doing its part. Some bees collect pollen. Some bees tend to the hive. Some bees guard the hive. Some bees tend to the nursery. Together they make a lot of honey.

The bees build in the crevices Of loosening masonry, and there The mother birds bring grubs and flies. My wall is loosening; honey-bees, Come build in the empty house of the stare.

At night in bed, they talked. He, of the bees. She of the birds. Never of the birds and bees.

Genetics or brain chemistry, trauma or karma? It doesn't really matter what it's called—after all, no one really knows for sure what causes this affliction—except that it ends. Can I stop doing this? Am I even able? The bees trapped inside my body buzz and whir, needling my nerve endings with delicate stings.

One can no more approach people without love than one can approach bees without care. Such is the quality of bees...

Bees work for man, and yet they never bruise Their Master's flower, but leave it having done, As fair as ever and as fit to use; So both the flower doth stay and honey run.

Hide me from day's garish eye, While the bee with honied thigh, That at her flowery work doth sing, And the waters murmuring With such consort as they keep, Entice the dewy-feathered sleep.

It's wonderful to me that bees have this simple, age-old thing going on.