Classic Poem

A wingéd army of fierce-working bees
Without my window makes continual hum;
A serri'd airy phalanx from the eaves
To th' grass, the honeysuckle vines among.
Sweet drowsy drone. Hum murmuring caressing
Th' ear. To hear brings mem'ries o' streams heard in dreams,
O' streams 'tween lotos-laden banks slow pressing
T'wards a sea whose waves no light know save moonbeams,
Whose waves are opal, weav'd wi' pearl-shot gold.
Gold velvet cloaks above smooth black-ring'd cuirass,
Jauntily bedeck these belted warriors bold,
With lurking sword for those who them harass.
Cold t' enter on a quarrel—but once engage
Then nought but annihilation cools their rage.