We bend in the direction of the queen.
We make delight from their necessity;
What we call gift, they might cry robbery,
But they cry nothing; only labor on
To replace what we have so smugly taken.
Their sweet stuff is a bulwark against time
For them, who come and go; but not for us,
Who come but once and go forever. Thus,
We who are trapped in time taste our lifetime's
Limits, and our smug confidence is shaken,
Knowing the hive will live when we are gone.
Perhaps in thanks, perhaps humility,
With brain and heart and bone, and fittingly,
We bow in the direction of the queen.