"I smell fennel," Launcelot said. "That reminds me, I should tell you I have discovered a specific for maims. You take salt, good-quality river mud, and bee urine, and slather it on the maim and hold it there for two days. Works like a charm. Gathering the bee urine is a bit of a bore."
Nostalgia is inevitably a yearning for a past that never existed and when I'm writing, there are no bees to sting me out of my sentimentality. For me at least, fiction is the only way I can even begin to twist my lying memories into something true.
White bee, even when you are gone you buzz in my soul You live again in time, slender and silent.
Linus Van Pelt: Well, I can understand how you feel. You worked hard, studying for the spelling bee, and I suppose you feel you let everyone down, and you made a fool of yourself and everything. But did you notice something, Charlie Brown? Charlie Brown: What's that? Linus Van Pelt: The world didn't come to an end.
I am a part of all you see In Nature: part of all you feel: I am the impact of the bee Upon the blossom; in the tree I am the sap that shall reveal The leaf, the bloom that flows and flutes Up from the darkness through its roots.
To constrain the brute force of the people, the European governments deem it necessary to keep them down by hard labor, poverty and ignorance, and to take from them, as from bees, so much of their earnings, as that unremitting labor shall be necessary to obtain a sufficient surplus to sustain a scanty and miserable life.
And pray, who are you?" Said the Violet blue To the Bee, with surprise, At his wonderful size, In her eyeglass of dew. "I, madam," quoth he, "Am a publican Bee, Collecting the tax Of honey and wax. Have you nothing for me?
This is an age of science. ... All important fields of activity from the breeding of bees to the administration of an empire, call for an understanding of the spirit and the technique of modern science. The nations that do not cultivate the sciences cannot hold their own.
The honey-bee's great ambition is to be rich, to lay up great stores, to possess the sweet of every flower that blooms. She is more than provident. Enough will not satisfy her, she must have all she can get by hook or crook.
Read like a butterfly, write like a bee.
The butterfly's attractiveness derives not only from colors and symmetry: deeper motives contribute to it. We would not think them so beautiful if they did not fly, or if they flew straight and briskly like bees, or if they stung, or above all if they did not enact the perturbing mystery of metamorphosis: the latter assumes in our eyes the value of a badly decoded message, a symbol, a sign.
Teenagers are like bees at night, I think. We don't like waking up and we don't always get with the program immediately, but once we figure out our mission, we'll see it through.
Bees sip honey from flowers and hum their thanks when they leave. The gaudy butterfly is sure that the flowers owe thanks to him.
[On John Cleese:] He sometimes seems to swat at his own thoughts as if they were bees.
This planet is an exquisitely arranged and interconnected system. What's controlled in one place is going to have consequences in another place. Our job as gardeners is to try and figure this out no matter how small our allotted space might be. Discipline has to be the watchword for our controlling hands. It means not gardening without thinking of the garden as a habitat: for mice, for squirrels, for bees and wasps. For other living creatures beyond ourselves.
Imagine spending four billion years stocking the oceans with seafood, filling the ground with fossil fuels, and drilling the bees in honey production - only to produce a race of bed-wetters!
The force that makes the winter grow Its feathered hexagons of snow , and drives the bee to match at home Their calculated honeycomb, Is abacus and rose combined. An icy sweetness fills my mind , A sense that under thing and wing Lies, taut yet living , coiled, the spring .
You put his brain in a bird, the bird would fly backwards" -Secret Life of the Bees
Didn't help to ponder things that were forever gone. It only made a body restless and fill up with bees, all wanting to sting something.
It is a sultry day; the sun has drunk The dew that lay upon the morning grass; There is no rustling in the lofty elm That canopies my dwelling, and its shade Scarce cools me. All is silent, save the faint And interrupted murmur of the bee, Settling on the sick flowers, And then again Instantly on the wing.
It is the goodly outside that sin puts on which tempteth to destruction. It has been said that sin is like the bee, with honey in its mouth, but a sting in its tail.
A dead Bee maketh no Hony.
No small thing, a bee's sting When it enters the heart Not so benign, the growing vine When it tears stone apart
An oath that is not to bee made is not to be kept.
Bee not a Baker, if your head be of butter.
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