THE NEAREST dream recedes, unrealized.
The heaven we chase
Like the June bee
Before the school-boy
Invites the race;
Stoops to an easy clover—

Then to the royal clouds
Lifts his light pinnace
Heedless of the boy

Staring, bewildered, at the mocking sky.
Homesick for steadfast honey,
Ah! the bee flies not
That brews that rare variety.

-Emily Dickinson

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