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His Feet are shod with Gauze—
His Helmet, is of Gold,
His Breast, a Single Onyx
With Chrysophrase, inlaid.
His Labor is a Chant—
His Idleness—a Tune—
Oh, for a Bee's experience
Of Clovers, and of Noon!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
..........oh wonderful poem...wasn't expecting the ending.. .the beekeeper is truly wonderful....love this ★