Saturday Rave: The Bee by Emily Dickinson.

It's the end of summer here in England. The countryside is rich with fruit and flower and honey - and in the towns millions of eyes are staring into small screens, fascinated with rather ordinary but arrogant people, whether in far away countries or living next door. 

And all those millions of eyes are blind to the lot of it.

So here, for a shot of sumptuous sensual delight in a very ordinary thing (and to what more glorious object can Art aim?) here's a poem by someone (not English) whose life was quiet enough to see the real things around her.

Like trains of cars on tracks of plush
I hear the level bee:
A jar across the flowers goes,
Their velvet masonry

Withstands until the sweet assault
Their chivalry consumes,
While he, victorious, tilts away
To vanquish other blooms.

His feet are shod with gauze,
His helmet is of gold;
His breast, a single onyx
With chrysoprase, inlaid.

His labor is a chant,
His idleness a tune;
Oh, for a bee's experience
Of clovers and of noon! 

* 

Now go off, for goodness' sake, and have a proper look at a beetle!

Word To Use Today: chrysoprase. Chrysoprase is a green gemstone. The word comes from the Greek krusos, meaning gold, and prason, which I'm afraid means leek.