Bee

____________________ Why was Cupid a boy, And why a boy was he? He should have been a girl, For aught that I can see. For he shoots with his bow, And the girl shoots with her eye, And they both are merry and glad, And laugh when we do cry. And to make Cupid a boy Was the Cupid girl's mocking plan; For a boy can't interpret the thing Till he is become a man. And then he's so pierc'd with cares, And wounded with arrowy smarts, That the whole business of his life Is to pick out the heads of the darts. 'Twas the Greeks' love of war Turn'd Love into a boy, And woman into a statue of stone-- And away fled every joy. ----------William Blake

This morning the green fists of the peonies are getting ready to break my heart as the sun rises, as the sun strokes them with his old, buttery fingers and they open — pools of lace, white and pink — and all day the black ants climb over them, boring their deep and mysterious holes into the curls, craving the sweet sap, taking it away to their dark, underground cities — and all day under the shifty wind, as in a dance to the great wedding, the flowers bend their bright bodies, and tip their fragrance to the air, and rise, their red stems holding all that dampness and recklessness gladly and lightly, and there it is again — beauty the brave, the exemplary, blazing open. Do you love this world? Do you cherish your humble and silky life? Do you adore the green grass, with its terror beneath? Do you also hurry, half-dressed and barefoot, into the garden, and softly, and exclaiming of their dearness, fill your arms with the white and pink flowers, with their honeyed

_ _ _ Between my finger and my thumb  The squat pen rests; snug as a gun. Under my window, a clean rasping sound  When the spade sinks into gravelly ground:  My father, digging. I look down Till his straining rump among the flowerbeds  Bends low, comes up twenty years away  Stooping in rhythm through potato drills  Where he was digging. The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft  Against the inside knee was levered firmly. He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep To scatter new potatoes that we picked, Loving their cool hardness in our hands. By God, the old man could handle a spade.  Just like his old man. My grandfather cut more turf in a day Than any other man on Toner’s bog. Once I carried him milk in a bottle Corked sloppily with paper. He straightened up To drink it, then fell to right away Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods Over his shoulder, going down and down For the good turf. Digging. The cold smell of potato mould, the sq