The Bee’s Last Journey to the Rose

I came first through the warm grass

Humming with Spring,

And now swim through the evening’s

Soft sunlight gone cold.

I’m old in this green ocean,

Going a final time to the rose.

North wind, until I reach it

Keep your icy breath away

That changes pollen into dust.

Let me be drunk on this scent a final time,

Then blow if you must.