the bee-loud glade

The bees have come alive here this week - they are everywhere, buzzing by day and doing whatever it is that carpenter bees do in between layers of wood at night. All I know is you can *hear* it.

Serendipitously, while writing yesterday, I happened to reach a scene in my novel-in-progress referencing William Butler Yeats' poem, the Lake Isle of Innisfree. What wonderful words for these days, here in the bee-loud glade.


I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made;
Nine bean rows will I have there, a hive for the honey bee,
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.

And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,
Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;
There midnight's all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,
And evening full of the linnet's wings.

I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements gray,
I hear it in the deep heart's core.