Leaves glowing in the sun, zealous hum of bumble bees
From afar, from somewhere beyond the river, echoes of lingering voices
And the unhurried sounds of a hammer...

Unbounded forests flowing with the honey of wild bees.

...Once he had treefuls of honey on his estates.

The road weaves upward accompanied by a drum and a flute,
Round and round the bends, where the scent is more and more honeyed.
Plaited beehives, their straw shines like brass....

Czeslaw Milosz, "An Hour," "Notes," "From the Rising of the Sun," Bells in Winter (1978)

April 11, 2004 in Apiary | Comments (0)


You shall see rude and sturdy, experienced and wise men, keeping their castles, or teaming up their summer's wood, or chopping alone in the woods, men fuller of talk and rare adventure in the sun and wind and rain, than a chestnut is of meat; who were out not only in '75 and 1812, but have been out every day of their lives; greater men than Homer, or Chaucer, or Shakespeare, only they never got time to say so; they never took to the way of writing. Look at their fields, and imagine what they might write, if ever they should put pen to paper. Or what have they not written on the face of the earth already, clearing, and burning, and scratching, and harrowing, and ploughing, and subsoiling, in and in, and out and out, and over and over, again and again, erasing what they had already written for want of parchment.

H.D. Thoreau, A Week on the Concord and Merrimack Rivers (1849).

April 9, 2004 | Comments (0)