From dust-clouds muddied as earth's cheeks
That blushed to see scant sky's rude streaks
Yet now turn green: heaped with storm’s piques!
To parch meant not the ray that speaks
More mellow to a brook that creaks
With timber’s limber rooted beaks:
That gorge a hum with what wet wreaks!
This one was written a while back during warmer climes, but I thought it went did well to follow the bees in the last poem with its hummed ditty. Maybe I'll write a poem on bumblebees tomorrow if I've time?
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