Edmund Pollard speaks like a man looking back with hunger. He wishes he had pushed his living hands straight into the flower’s fiery center—the sun, the bee-filled heart of life—instead of standing back among the petals and pale edges. From the grave or from old age, he turns to a “young passer-by” and insists the world is a banquet already set for them. Don’t be shy, don’t nibble and politely refuse. If your soul is alive, feed it: climb, rest, kiss, drink, and spend yourself in ecstasies of body and soul. The mood is urgent and almost feverish, but shaded with regret. Life is the queen-bee, and he wants you to kiss her now, fully awake, not after the chance has passed.
Edmund Pollard — Summary
I would I had thrust my hands of flesh Into the disk-flowers bee-infested, Into the mirror-like core of fire Of the light of life, the sun of delight. For what are anthers worth or petals Or halo-rays? Mockeries, shadows Of the heart of the flower, the central flame All is yours, young passer-by; Enter the banquet room with the thought; Don’t sidle in as if you were doubtful Whether you’re welcome—the feast is yours! Nor take but a little, refusing more With a bashful “Thank you”, when you’re hungry. Is your soul alive? Then let it feed! Leave no balconies where you can climb; Nor milk-white bosoms where you can rest; Nor golden heads with pillows to share; Nor wine cups while the wine is sweet; Nor ecstasies of body or soul, You will die, no doubt, but die while living In depths of azure, rapt and mated, Kissing the queen-bee, Life!