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No tears in the writer, no tears in the reader. No surprise for the writer, no surprise for the reader. - Robert Frost

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      THE LAST BUMBLEBEE

Sewn with gold is your sable-black jerkin of velvet,
Loud your hum  as you boldly fly into my room.
Why, O bumblebee, drone you so mournfully, tell me?
Would you share my dejection and gloom?

Blazing sunshine streams in. But already more mellow
Are the days, though the skies their bright blueness still keep.
Fly about, hum your fill - on the hard, pale-red pillow
Of a thistle go soundly to sleep.

You don't think as do we,  you don't know of the boldly
Rising winds that are scouring the now empty lea
Or that onto the grass they'll soon sweep the still golden
But by then dead and dried bumblebee.

1916