So Work the Honeybees

So work the honeybees,

Creatures that by a rule in nature teach

The act of order to a peopled kingdom.

~ William Shakespeare

I'd Be a Butterfly

I'd be a butterfly born in a bower,

Were roses and lilies and violets meet.

~ Thomas Haynes Bayly

There are Certain Pursuits

There are certain pursuits which, if not wholly poetic and true,

do at least suggest a nobler and finer relation to nature than we now.

The keeping of bees, for instance.

~ Henry David Thoreau

Sing-Song

Hurt no living thing:

Ladybird, nor butterfly,

Nor moth with dusty wing.

~ Christina Georgina Rossetti

The Honeybee

'Cross sunlit field and meadow green
The tiny honeybee,
In shafts of light may be seen
Winging over the lea.
Or yonder distant mountain peak
May beckon him to roam
On alpine slope, its pollen seek,
And fetch its nectar home.
Clover, hayfield, scented sage
He samples and moves on,
In Nature's book to write his page
Before the summer's gone.

~ C.M. Montgomery

The Lark is Up to Meet the Sun

Summer in the Valley

Summer has reached the valley now;
In hives the bees are swarming;
The weeder has replaced the plow;
The weather's fair and warmer.
In green-tinged orchards, limbs hang low
From luscious fruits they are bearing;
Out in the garden, flowers grow;
There is beauty everywhere.

O'er grass bordering a winding lane,
A soft blanket has spread
Where tiny violets bloom again,
Near fenceposts up ahead.
The scented pines on yonder hill
Give fragrance down below;
Lush ferns are nodding by the rill
Where birch and willow grow.

In fields and meadows I can hear
The bluebirds as they sing -
Their melody is soft and clear,
As summer news they bring.
Deep in the wood's secluded bowers,
All natural life will rally
When it's summer in the valley.

~ P.F. Freeman

Magic Flowers

Bright butterflies,

Like pretty colored fans,

Flutter through the sky

Clapping their hands.

With big bright spots

On wings of chiffon,

Like little magic flowers

They light on the lawn.

~ Jill Noblit MacGregor

Two Butterflies

Two butterflies went out at noon

And waltzed above a stream,

Then stepped straight through

the firmament

And rested on a beam;

And then together bore away

Upon a shining sea, ---

Though never yet, in any port,

Their coming mentioned be.

~ Emily Dickinson

Blackberrying

All on a cloudless afternoon

We walked into the drowsy June.

Through meadows wide, across a stile,

We must have walked a country mile

Into a leafy, whispering wood

Where tree-sentinel soldiers stood.

Searching bushes low we found

Luscious berries near the ground,

Hanging there in clusters neat,

Tantalizing, purple-sweet.

We picked and ate some, saved some too.

See! Our hands are purple blue.

~ Vilet Bennett

Blue Buttons

Sweet memories of childhood and pleasures I knew

When summer was special and berries were blue.

Like tiny blue buttons on a miniature tree,

A branch of blueberries was charming to me.

How lovely to wander far back o'er a hill

And pick blueberries, my kettle to fill.

Then home o'er the hill my treasure I'd take,

And Mother would bake me a blueberry cake.

Some folks may not like it, but to me 'twas a treat ---

So special each summer when berries were sweet.

A pies is delicious and easy to make;

But remembering Mother, I'll have blueberry cake.

~ Cecil B. Smith

Blueberry Time

It's blueberry time on the pasture hills
Across mossy hummocks, where birds dip low.
Here, bright summer sunshine its warm gold spills
On dusty thistles, where steeplebush grows.

On a midsummer day, climb pasture bars,
Follow the cow path past great mullein spires,
Or wade through the daisies like fallen stars,
And then circle the milkweeds' tall spiked fires.

Here where the berries hang blue, sweet, and lush,
We pick them and drop them into our pails --
Huge clusters dangle from each swelling bush;
Ripe fruit falls on tin like a storm of hail.

Summer day here on the green pasture slopes
Where happily pass the long golden hours --
Old straw hats and a few hundred hopes,
With joy intermingled in leafy bowers;

Of muffins and jam and blueberry pies,
Fragrant and brown with rich juices oozing;
Fritters, flummery, some sweet surprise --
These are the blueberries for first choosing.

Laughter and sunshine, pails brimming over,
And back down the hill at the day's calm wane,
We stagger home through the crimson clover,
Lips telling tales with their blueberry stain.

~ Ruth B. Field

Canning Time

I kneel on warm ground by loaded rows
Of small green peas that my garden grows,
Feeling a kinship with summer and God
Each time I pick a ripe, green pod.
In my kitchen I hull away
The covering from my food bouquet,
Exposing small jewels of sparkling hue,
Bits of warm sunshine and parts of dew
That shimmer like jade in a showcase.
Canning green peas is not commonplace
But something like conquering Venus or Mars,
When I store the summer away in clear jars.

~ Ruth B. Field

Grandmother's Helper

I was Grandmother's little helper
And worked busily at her side;
Her kitchen hummed to the tempo
Of a crackling fire and canning time.
Dry fir and cedar snapped with glee
Inside the firebox's warm glow,
While the water rose, boiled, and steamed
In her copper boiler on the stove.
I washed two rows of small-mouthed jars
Until they sparkled, just like new.
And then I snapped baskets of string beans;
She watched, smiling at what I could do.
When the beans were scalded, cooled,
and packed
Into her quart jars close and tight,
She reached for a little open crock
And let me salt the beans, just right.
Then into her bubbling boiler
She lowered jars on a long, wire rack
While I lingered and tidied the kitchen
Or read cookbooks and old almanacs.
And my efforts were well rewarded
By the sparkle in Grandmother's eye
When she gazed at the resplendent store
In her cellar, then gave a happy sigh.
Oh,  how dear are all the memories,
Summers spent by my grandmother's side.
When her kitchen hummed
and sang softly
Of our fulfillment at canning time.

~ Joy Belle Burgess

Clover Field

Nothing's more sweet than a red clover field
Caressed by the wind and kissed by the rain;
Redolent with dreams, here rich honey yield
Is garnered by bees where sunshine has lain.
Red clover nodding and white clover swayed
By plush bumblebees, zigzagging on wings
Like gossamer rainbows, through the bloom wade;
For deep in the clover the summertime sings.
In the green meadows that sway in a dance
To musical strains from ribbon-flung streams
Lies the fresh clover; its scent can entrance
With visions of beauty from tiptoeing dreams.
Over green clover the summer breeze cleaves
To lucid gold air where butterflies shine;
Magical alchemy, its subtle spell weaves
Tranquil content into patterns benign.
Breathe the rare fragrance; its essence unfolds
Within the heart's archives, always to keep.
Touch plush rose blossoms, their rapture behold
When they have vanished in long, silent sleep.
Freshened by night dew, the clover field glows
With words unspoken and poetry unsung;
But here something whispers, that the soul knows,
And lingers forever, where clover has sprung.

~ Ruth B. Field

Alfalfa

I still remember ---

Out on the farm,

In the late afternoons

When the sun was warm ---

The pasture gate

That let me through

To the place

Where tall alfalfa grew ---

Alfalfa, green

And lush and sweet,

And the ground so cool

To small bare feet.

I still remember

The sun gong down,

Spilling pure gold

On the roofs of the town;

The clang of milk pails;

The cattle lowing;

And the cool, sweet fragrance

Of alfalfa growing.

~ Margaret Neel

Haying Time

Fields starred over with daisies,
The grazing of his whetstone
Across the long crescent blade;
The easy, measured rhythm
Of his swing as the grass fell;
Air fragrant with the scent
of new-mown hay;
The sweet tremolo of a
Melancholy tune he whistled;
The mild warmth of June sun
In an azure blue sky,
Not clear, but holding o high;
Great milk-white cumulus clouds
Sailing like ancient galleons,
Their dark shadows fast moving
Over the land where he mowed.

~ Dorothy Taggart

Wishes

I think that a young girl should wear 

A crisp, bright ribbon in her hair;

That every summer day should grace

Its loveliness with Queen Anne's lace;

That flowering apple trees should hold

A robin's voice of liquid gold;

That on a long stone fence should run

One fat, gray squirrel, just for fun;

That night, when darkness daylight bars,

Should wear a diadem of stars.

~ Jessie Cannon Eldridge

Wild Royalty

There's a queen on Iowa's roadways,
So pure and humble white.
You will see her friendly waving
In the summer's sunny light.

Her beauty is of royalty;
Her castle is the home
She found along the byways
With the blue sky as her dome.

Her delicate white flowers
Adorn her head with grace,
As if they were selected
From the finest of all lace.

She will never win a prize
Or be judged in fancy shows,
But what better place to be,
For that is what God chose.

Whatever if her fate,
As each warm summer passes,
She returns in all her glory
And waves in tall, green grasses.

So when you roam the roadways
Of Iowa so fair,
May you take a second glance;
Queen Anne is standing there. 

~ Jeanette Beem

Welcome, Honeysuckle

Swing wide the door of summer;
The honeysuckle vine
Is sending forth aromas
That hint of things divine.

As soon as the first blossom
Opened its petals wide,
The bees were there and sharing
The honey tucked inside.

Along the country fences
These creamy blossoms trail;
Their sweet perfume is wafted
All through the hill and dale.

The summer has arrived now;
The honeysuckle's here
To spread its fragrant beauty
And add a note of cheer.

~ Georgia B. Adams

Hay and Honeysuckle Days

Do country lanes still hear cicadas sing
And lure with honeysuckle scent and hay,
To which drops of midsummer dew still cling,
As mockingbirds pour music down the way?
Do wild grapes twine around old pasture trees
And cows chew lazily on afternoons,
Heart-shimmering and murmurous with bees
That tick away the lavishness of Junes?
Do thistles ripen in untended fields
And orange lily chalices hold sun
While farmers cultivate rich harvest yields,
Then rock on porches when day's work is done?

~ Alice Mackenzie Swaim

To the Skylark

The skylark in the lovely month of June,
As on and up it soars so blithe and free
On nimble wings with golden throat in tune,
Pours out its strains of sweetest melody.
There is no darkened cloud to dim its course,
Nor angry storm its trusted hopes to blight;
It draws its power from that Mysterious Source
That fills the world with law and Love and Light
And guides the mighty eagle in its flight.

Teach me, O God, the secret of its heart
When in the dazzling heights so near to Thee,
It still sends forth its flood of wondrous art
To fill the listening world with ecstasy;
And how this arbiter of boundless sky,
Along with Thee to guide its tiny brain,
Will fold its tireless wings without a sigh,
And, as my hopes and plans and efforts vain,
Like a falling star drop to the earth again.

~ Henry Polk Lowenstein

The Meadowlark

His song is golden ---
It comes to me
From the topmost branch
Of the tall ash tree.
In ecstasy
He lifts his throat
And pours forth music,
Note by note.
For a lovely world,
A lovely day,
He sings his heart
And mine away.

~ Edith Shaw Butler

Summer's Best

Torrid months with skies of blue,
When summer reigns supreme
I bask in golden sunshine,
An answer to a dream.

The garden's in full bloom now
As all the countryside,
Sweet, abundant, rich, and green,
Sings out with joy and pride.

Bright laughter of the children
Is heard throughout the day,
As they enjoy each hour
Before it slips away.

I love to watch the sunset
And fireflies brightly glow;
The air is filled with magic
When evening breezes blow.

My heart is free and happy,
And life is so sublime,
As each new day embraces
The good old summertime.

~ LaVerne P. Larson

Noon

I pause and listen, sure that I hear
A bobwhite's call upon the  hill,
The whirr of bees and locusts near ---
Everything else is still.

In vibrant sun the peach turns red,
While cotton and corn grow tall;
Fat, dreamy cows in the maple's shade ---
I'm sure I see them all.

The light turns green, the traffic moves,
I merge with the crowded street:
No longer standing in a field
Where memories are sweet.

~ Marel Brown

Praise

For the light haze on the mountain
And the fair blue of the sky
Where fleecy clouds, like distant ships,
Are calmly sailing by;
For the wealth of ripened berries
Hidden in the grasses tall,
And the nameless charm of summer
That casts a spell on all;
For fresh dawns and dewy evenings
And the heat of the sultry noon;
For the morning songs of sparrows
And the thrush's vesper tune;
For the scent of countless blossoms
Borne upon the cooling breeze;
For the sounds of the busy mowers
And the drowsy hum of bees;
For all your gifts of beauty
Which charm the ear and eye,
We bring to you our truest praise,
O lovely summertime well-nigh.

~ Alice E. Charles

A Boy and Nature

A boy needs woods when he's growing up 

And open fields a stream ---

 place to lie and look at the sky

On top of a hill and dream.

A boy needs freedom to roam the trails

That his own two feet have made,

To foster joyful adventuring

And a spirit unafraid.

A boy who's lucky enough to grow

Deep-rooted in nature's ways

Carries its lessons of peace and strength

Within him all of his days.

~ Virginia Blanck Moore

Realm of the Barefoot Boy

When summer comes, my heart returns

The sunny days of childhood days

That wind through vales of trees and fern

Where dreams are mileposts by the way,

Where echo clear the whistled tunes

Of barefoot boys in love with June.

~ Brian F. King

If We Knew

Let us gather up the sunbeams

Lying all around our path;

Let us keep the wheat and roses,

Casting out the thorns and chaff;

Let us find our sweetest comfort

In the blessings of today,

With a patient hand removing

All the briars from the way.

~ May Riley Smith

The Summer Pool

There is singing in the summer air,

The blue and brown moths flutter o'er the grass,

The stubble bird is creaking in the  wheat,

And perch'd upon the honeysuckle-hedge

Pipes the green linnet. Oh, the golden world!

The stir of life on every blade of grass,

The motion and the joy on every bough,

The glad feast everywhere, for things that love

The sunshine, and for things that love the shade!

~ Cosmo Monkhouse