Like dancing bees, we stumble from our hives
And bumble off in search of nectared fame;
A careless sting rips out our fumbling lives,
And worker, drone or Queen— we fare the same.
For what? For what! For honey in the sky?
For heaven’s combs where bee-gods whir and dance
On endless summer days; where no bees die?
Dream on; the days grow short. The sting is chance.