I see the humble bumble-bee
Has emerged from her winter hole
In the old pomegranate tree
And fallen on the grass and died
I wonder what she's left behind
She does not look like something divine
A smudge that crumbles into dust
All last summer I stood back and watched
Her barely air-borne body
Set out with her empty bags
In the early morning haze
And trundle back in the twilight
Fairly dripping with silver and gold
To doze in her starry chamber
And not worry about nights or days
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