很久以前，阿波罗召唤牧羊人中最年轻的阿里斯托斯，说:“我要让你看管我的蜜蜂。”金色的蜂巢，金色的蜜;音乐也是金色的，那是采蜜人在树林中嗡嗡作响的地方。快乐的阿里斯托斯在花园里游荡，在果园里游荡，无忧无虑而又心满意足，懒散而又自由;他轻松地接受了他的劳动，轻松地接受了他的快乐，直到命中注定的时刻欧律狄刻穿过他的道路。然后她的眼睛点燃了他心中燃烧着的爱;他为她花朵般的面庞的完美甜美而疯狂;他急切地跟在后面，而她在他前面逃命，越过草地和高山，穿过田野和森林，在一场气喘吁吁的赛跑中。但仙女在飞翔时，踩到了一条蛇;她像梦一样消失了; Pluto's chariot bore her down among the dead; Lonely Aristæus, sadly home returning, found his garden empty, All the hives deserted, all the music fled. Mournfully bewailing, -- "ah, my honey-makers, where have you departed?" -- Far and wide he sought them, over sea and shore; Foolish is the tale that says he ever found them, brought them home in triumph, Joys that once escape us fly for evermore. Yet I dream that somewhere, clad in downy whiteness, dwell the honey-makers, In aerial gardens that no mortal sees: And at times returning, lo, they flutter round us, gathering mystic harvest, So I weave the legend of the long-lost bees. II THE SWARMING OF THE BEES I WHO can tell the hiding of the white bees' nest? Who can trace the guiding of their swift home flight? Far would be his riding on a life-long quest: Surely ere it ended would his beard grow white. Never in the coming of the rose-red Spring, Never in the passing of the wine-red Fall, May you hear the humming of the white bee's wing Murmur o'er the meadow, ere the night bells call. Wait till winter hardens in the cold grey sky, Wait till leaves are fallen and the brooks all freeze, Then above the gardens where the dead flowers lie, Swarm the merry millions of the wild white bees. II Out of the high-built airy hive, Deep in the clouds that veil the sun, Look how the first of the swarm arrive; Timidly venturing, one by one, Down through the tranquil air, Wavering here and there, Large, and lazy in flight, -- Caught by a lift of the breeze, Tangled among the naked trees, -- Dropping then, without a sound, Feather-white, feather-light, To their rest on the ground. III Thus the swarming is begun. Count the leaders, every one Perfect as a perfect star Till the slow descent is done. Look beyond them, see how far Down the vistas dim and grey, Multitudes are on the way. Now a sudden brightness Dawns within the sombre day, Over fields of whiteness; And the sky is swiftly alive With the flutter and the flight Of the shimmering bees, that pour From the hidden door of the hive Till you can count no more. IV Now on the branches of hemlock and pine Thickly they settle and cluster and swing, Bending them low; and the trellised vine And the dark elm-boughs are traced with a line Of beauty wherever the white bees cling. Now they are hiding the wrecks of the flowers, Softly, softly, covering all, Over the grave of the summer hours Spreading a silver pall. Now they are building the broad roof ledge, Into a cornice smooth and fair, Moulding the terrace, from edge to edge, Into the sweep of a marble stair. Wonderful workers, swift and dumb, Numberless myriads, still they come, Thronging ever faster, faster, faster! Where is their queen? Who is their master? The gardens are faded, the fields are frore, How will they fare in a world so bleak? Where is the hidden honey they seek? What is the sweetness they toil to store In the desolate day, where no blossoms gleam? Forgetfulness and a dream! V But now the fretful wind awakes; I hear him girding at the trees; He strikes the bending boughs, and shakes The quiet clusters of the bees To powdery drift; He tosses them away, He drives them like spray; He makes them veer and shift Around his blustering path. In clouds blindly whirling, In rings madly swirling, Full of crazy wrath, So furious and fast they fly They blur the earth and blot the sky In wild, white mirk. They fill the air with frozen wings And tiny, angry, icy stings; They blind the eyes, and choke the breath, They dance a maddening dance of death Around their work, Sweeping the cover from the hill, Heaping the hollows deeper still, Effacing every line and mark, A