You passionate, Powdery Pastoral bandits, Who gave you your Roaming and Rollicking mandates? Come out of my Foxglove; come Out of my roses You bees with the Plushy and Plausible noses!
Hundreds of bees are drowned every day, and other hundreds are eaten by birds, and it is the queen’s business to keep the population up to standard.
Bees work for man, and yet they never bruise Their master’s flower, but leave it having done, As fair as ever and fit to use; So both the flower doth stay, and honey run.
If any old farmer can keep and hive me, Then any old drone may catch and wife me; I’m sorry for creatures who cannot pair On a gorgeous day in the upper air, I’m sorry for cows that have to boast Of affairs they’ve had by parcel post, I’m sorry for a man with his […]
Bees are not as busy as we think they are. They just can’t buzz any slower.
According to classical aerodynamics, it is impossible for a bumblebee to fly.
Perhaps, too, it’s as well that Denis hasn’t been permitted to flower into a little Nero, and that Ivor remains only potentially a Caligula. Yes, it’s better so, no doubt. But it would have been more amusing, as a spectacle, if they had had the chance to develop, untrammelled, the full horror of their potentialities. […]
Honeyed words like bees, Gilded and sticky, with a little sting.
The queen, for her part, is the unifying force of the community; if she is removed from the hive, the workers very quickly sense her absence. After a few hours, or even less, they show unmistakable signs of queenlessness.
I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree, And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made; Nine bean rows will I have there, a hive for the honey bee, And live alone in the bee-loud glade.