clover – The Emily Project

The pedigree of honey
Does not concern the bee;
A clover, any time, to him
Is aristocracy.
~Emily Dickinson

We should all be more like bees. That is my takeaway from this poem.

As a beekeeper, though, I’ve just emerged from an internet rabbit hole where I’ve been attempting to figure out whether Emily Dickinson should have known that worker bees are female. Apparently, while some beekeeping scientists did discover this fact as early as the early 1800s, it was not widely accepted for about a hundred years. So I guess I can forgive Emily her ignorance on this particular topic. I wonder if knowing this bit of information would have changed any of her poetry–or her imagining–in any way. She wrote so many poems about or including bees–I wonder what might have shifted if she had known that the bees she was describing were almost entirely female.

THERE is a flower that bees prefer,
And butterflies desire;
To gain the purple democrat
The humming-birds aspire.

And whatsoever insect pass,
A honey bears away
Proportioned to his several dearth
And her capacity.

Her face is rounder than the moon,
And ruddier than the gown
Of orchis in the pasture,
Or rhododendron worn.

She doth not wait for June;
Before the world is green
Her sturdy little countenance
Against the wind is seen,

Contending with the grass,
Near kinsman to herself,
For privilege of sod and sun,
Sweet litigants for life.

And when the hills are full,
And newer fashions blow,
Doth not retract a single spice
For pang of jealousy.

Her public is the noon,
Her providence the sun,
Her progress by the bee proclaimed
In sovereign, swerveless tune.

The bravest of the host,
Surrendering the last,
Nor even of defeat aware
When cancelled by the frost.
~Emily Dickinson

Emily has a lot to say about purple clover. It’s a humble sort of flower, yet completely wonderful, too–often written off as a weed, but transmogrified into the sweetest honey.

White clover comes early here. Its blossoms carpet the lawn, providing some of the first nectar for pollinating insects. It’s small and low-growing, profuse, starring the green with tiny fireworks of pink-tinged white. The purple clover comes later. I just spotted some in the garden last week, and left it where it was. As gardeners go, I am probably a bit more whimsical than is strictly wise. There’s a wild poppy that reseeds itself year after year among the tomatoes and lettuce. I let it, and enjoy its random burst of color among the green.

The purple clover will stay in the garden at the edge of the bean patch. I will watch it for honeybees, maybe cut and dry some for herbal tea. It is a reminder that life is uncontrollable, persistent, and strangely sweet.

Tag: clover

The pedigree of honey and the history of beekeeping

Purple clover