Honey from the Comb

The toneless confusion of the bees
Tunes to a static blankness all I see:
A garden, blossom-burdened, beneath sweet trees.

When night and the encroaching moon slide nigh,
Your striding image shoves those cold roses aside
And all my thoughts are zeroed to a sigh.

Every golden comb that hangs, to be complete,
Must with terror and pleasure compete,
So mixed is spirit and the heart's meat.

Now the moon is down and the heart raves:
All the bee-slaved honey that I have
I gave to her, and again would give,

That she might my essence sieve.