Bee

Whatever of the fine and mortal

Be thy point, thou blondest bee,

I’ve not, on my basket tenderly,

Flung anything but a dream of dentelle.

Sting the breast’s gourd beautiful,

Upon which Love lies dead or drowsy,

That a bit of vermilion me

Come to the flesh that rounded rebel!

I have great need of a prompt torment:

An ill quick and well terminated

Is worth more than torture dormant!

Be then my sense illuminated

By this gold alarum lowly

Without which Love lies dead or dozing!

Paul Valéry