Emily Pauline Johnson

The Homing Bee

    You are belted with gold, little brother of mine,
            Yellow gold, like the sun
    That spills in the west, as a chalice of wine
            When feasting is done.

    You are gossamer-winged, little brother of mine,
            Tissue winged, like the mist
    That broods where the marshes melt into a line
            Of vapour sun-kissed.

    You are laden with sweets, little brother of mine,
            Flower sweets, like the touch
    Of hands we have longed for, of arms that entwine,
            Of lips that love much.

    You are better than I, little brother of mine,
            Than I, human-souled,
    For you bring from the blossoms and red summer shine,
            For others, your gold.