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The River of Selective Eternity
Tread lightly, bee, on the delicate petals, and drink not in excess if its sweet, sticky treasures
for the flower has motives for renewing these pleasures to one whose patient
Do you not long in the winter for a taste of the flower?
Do you pray for the summer in the absantee hour?
And when spring thaws the ground, do you not yearn for the pastels perfume to be given its turn?
Surely long are the nights to the blissless bee
who hastens at dawn to it favorite to find it empty
Dip your stinger too long in the pastels plush and her pastels in their bloom, will grow cold to your touch
for the flower has motives for renewing these pleasures to one whose patient
Do you not long in the winter for a taste of the flower?
Do you pray for the summer in the absantee hour?
And when spring thaws the ground, do you not yearn for the pastels perfume to be given its turn?
Surely long are the nights to the blissless bee
who hastens at dawn to it favorite to find it empty
Dip your stinger too long in the pastels plush and her pastels in their bloom, will grow cold to your touch
