These lattices of bright blue, green and red;
Faultless and loyal, obstinate and true,
Do revel in patterns of complex thread,
And repel intruders, as is their due.
And such is the due of the bee as well!
For if a hostile hand attempted harm,
Would not chaos reign? Would not queens be quelled?
Their ambitions become a mere crude farm —
Oh, ye knitted spines of science, go help,
The chemical smoke from the hive calls aid!
Are you not mirrors, the bee and yourself?
Be you idle if you were sought as prey?
Emissaries of improvement you are,
Conjoined, have potential as vast as stars.