Pollinator - May 12

A while ago,—you seemed a fantasy— and like a fragmentary apparition or a flutter flitting past my faint cognition —to my buzzing thoughts: you the rose, I the bee. And though my hiving mind, admittedly, swarmed all around a phony superstition, (you—o’ flower), yet,—(and, malintution? aside;)—you roused in me the gayest glee. Now, you go as a prickle—as the sting of a hard thorn, each every random while, and seek to nib my nose, or pique my eye.— Well, since convention bars my asking “why?”, I’ll try to win another petal’s smile; —though, must you be the blossom of my spring?