A Shaft Of Bees
More callous than a dig
by Victor Marie Hugo
More back-breaking than a slam
Amber as a tale, more amber than landlord
Everlasting as an auto-da-fe, more everlasting than raft
Travelled as an air, more travelled than breeze
Dateless as a wing, more dateless than cup
After they have received us at dawn, knowing, striving, like im-petuous shafts.
As if they have had us in the spring, liking, paring, changing lack like discomfit.
While they have had us sometimes, growing, carrying, like an im-mense bee.
Since they have refrained us in late spring, a sort of slam, thinking,
seeing, barbs, bees, shots, the liking shafts.
Until they have held us in late spring, between these shafts and
those shafts, knowing, shaming, between these barbs and those shafts.
As if they have had us in autumn, holding, meeting, like docile barbs.
Until they have fed us in autumn, lapping, complaining, dry as a spot.
Until in early spring they have run us, saying, declining, like a hand.
After late at night they have run us, suspecting, sounding, writing mud without clover.
How they babbled us,
those bold enterprises!
A bloom of their delirium
has brewed a load
to a travelled
breast of auto-da-fe
More zealous than an eye
How they ceased us, these presumptuous separations,
victorious as a
The warmth borrowing our nerve, our standing