Under the hot August Sun
Ruling a cloudless sky,
Bumble-bees, both big and small,
Fly from their nests
To the Lavender bush
Grown by a south-facing wall.
Here, upward the scented
Spikes they climb,
Clambering madly in the rush,
Or with a low-pitched hum,
Buzzing from flower to flower
As they eagerly gather
Nectar and pollen
Until fully loaded,
Their tiny brains are overcome
With the prime notion
To return home;
An ancient power
Driving them back, then forth -
They know not why —
Beyond the immediacy of their chores;
Round, furry, clockwork creatures
Working every daylight hour
For the common cause.
Never goaded.
A thing they do most willingly,
Without teachers,
Emotion,
Profit,
Or applause.