Poesie di Emily Dickinson

The nearest Dream recedes-unrealized- The Heaven we chase, Like the June Bee- before the School Boy, Invites the Race- Stoops- to an easy Clover- Dips- evades-teases- deploys- Then- to the Royal Clouds Lifts his light Pinnace- Heedless of the Boy- Staring- bewildered- at the mocking sky- Homesick for steadfast Honey- Ah, the Bee flies not That brews that rare variety!	Bee! I'm expecting you! Was saying Yesterday To Somebody you know That you were due- The Frogs got Home last Week- Are settled, and at work- Birds, mostly back- The Clover warm and thick- You'll get my Letter by The seventeenth;Reply Or better, be with me- Yours, Fly.
Bees are Black, with Gilt Surcingles- Buccaneers of Buzz. Ride abroad in ostentation And subsist on Fuzz. Fuzz ordained-not Fuzz contingent- Marrows of the Hill. Jugs- a Universe's fracture Could not jar or spill.	To make a prairie it takes a clover and one bee, One clover, and a bee, And revery. The revery alone will do, If bees are few.

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