And with what heaps of sweetness half stifle wanton May.
Think of the mossy forests
By the bee-birds haunted,
And all those [Amazonian plains], lone lying, as enchanted.
Trees themselves are ours;
Fruits are born of flowers;
Peach and roughest nut were blossoms in the spring.
The lusty bee knows well
The news, and [comes pell-mell]
And dances in the bloomy thicks with [darksome antheming].