The Pedigree of Honey

Finding value where you least expect it is always wonderful. Finding value and beauty in the small things, or the overlooked everyday things, is something I try to remember to do when I can, especially when life’s throwing a few curve balls.

Today, it’s honey’s turn! And, while it may not be overlooked, what a gift is honey from the small thing that is the bee!

Poet Emily Dickinson’s simple, yet timeless poem is both a reminder of the gift of the natural world, and a social commentary. It has additional meaning in our century as we contemplate our impact on the flora and fauna around us.

The pedigree of honey

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

-Emily Dickinson (1830-1886) Poem in the Public Domain

^{Reference: Emily Dickinson, ‘The Pedigree of Honey’ in Poems, ed: Todd, Mabel Loomis, University Press Cambridge, Mass., 1890}

Honey Harvest

In “Honey Harvest”, poet Martin Armstrong lyrically celebrates the bounty and flavours of honey gathered from various flowers throughout the seasons. I love this stanza about summer, particularly the line about clearest amber:

Those blossoms fall ere June, warm June that brings
    The small white Clover. Field by scented field,
    Round farms like islands in the rolling weald,
    It spreads thick-flowering or in wildness springs
    Short-stemmed upon the naked downs, to yield
    A richer store of honey than the Rose,
    The Pink, the Honeysuckle. Thence there flows
    Nectar of clearest amber, redolent
        Of every flowery scent
    That the warm wind upgathers as he goes.

And this image of all the jars of honey, the evidence of a year’s work, by both bee and beekeeper.

Then let a choice of every kind be made,
    And, labelled, set upon your storehouse racks–
    Of Hawthorn-honey that of almond smacks:
    The luscious Lime-tree-honey, green as jade:
    Pale Willow-honey, hived by the first rover:
        That delicate honey culled
    From Apple-blossom, that of sunlight tastes:
    And sunlight-coloured honey of the Clover.
        Then, when the late year wastes,
    When night falls early and the noon is dulled
        And the last warm days are over,
    Unlock the store and to your table bring
    Essence of every blossom of the spring.
    And if, when wind has never ceased to blow
    All night, you wake to roofs and trees becalmed
        In level wastes of snow,
    Bring out the Lime-tree-honey, the embalmed
    Soul of a lost July, or Heather-spiced
    Brown-gleaming comb wherein sleeps crystallised
    All the hot perfume of the heathery slope.
    And, tasting and remembering, live in hope.

-Martin Armstrong, “Honey Harvest” (1882-1974), Full Poem Here, Poem in the Public Domain

This is what’s nice about reading poetry, or other great writing. It either helps define the curve balls, or pushes them to the side. Because what I’m wondering now is what honey’s in the pantry, and will it spoil my dinner if I have some on bread 🙂 How about you?