Whereon they might their gauzy pinions fold.
But they escaped, a saffron-scented wind,
Which blew from meads below the horizon’s rim,
Into this blossom-tessellated vale
They swiftly traced, a thin aerial clue
By their keen muzzles in the trackless blue
Of heaven detected, and they builded here
A honey mart, that grew without a peer.
Its cells and waxen magazines ran o’er
With brimful floods of lucent yellow dew,