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“You are the ocean, let the rivers come to you. You are the flower, let the bees come to you.”
― Amit Ray

“We are bees then; our honey is language.”
― Robert Bly

“Everything about her was sweet, pale like honey. You would not have been surprised to see a bee caught in the tangles of that yellow hair.”
― Katherine Mansfield, The Singing Lesson

“If I were a flower,
humming bird would be my favourite bee
And If I were blind,
the light of darkness I'd love to see”
― Munia Khan

“It is the honey which makes us cruel enough to ignore the death of a bee”
― Munia Khan

“Bees... by virtue of a certain geometrical forethought, knew that the hexagon is greater than the square and the triangle and will hold more honey for the same expenditure of material.”
― Pappus, Greek Mathematical Works: Volume II, From Aristarchus to Pappus.

“If bees only gathered nectar from perfect flowers, they wouldn’t be able to make even a single drop of honey.”
― Matshona Dhliwayo

“His breath fell in a warm, even rhythm on the curve of her cheek. “Some people think of the bee as a sacred insect,â€� he said. “It’s a symbol of reincarnation.â€�
“I don’t believe in reincarnation,� she muttered.
There was a smile in his voice. “What a surprise. At the very least, the bees� presence in your home is a sign of good things to come.�
Her voice was buried in the fine wool of his coat. “Wh-what does it mean if there are thousands of bees in one’s home?�
He shifted her higher in his arms, his lips curving gently against the cold rim of her ear. “Probably that we’ll have plenty of honey for teatime. We’re going through the doorway now. In a moment I’m going to set you on your feet.�
Amelia kept her face against him, her fingertips digging into the layers of his clothes. “Are they following?�
“No. They want to stay near the hive. Their main concern is to protect the queen from predators.�
“She has nothing to fear from me!�
Laughter rustled in his throat. With extreme care, he lowered Amelia’s feet to the floor. Keeping one arm around her, he reached with the other to close the door. “There. We’re out of the room. You’re safe.� His hand passed over her hair. “You can open your eyes now.�
Clutching the lapels of his coat, Amelia stood and waited for a feeling of relief that didn’t come. Her heart was racing too hard, too fast. Her chest ached from the strain of her breathing. Her lashes lifted, but all she could see was a shower of sparks.
“Amelia � easy. You’re all right.� His hands chased the shivers that ran up and down her back. “Slow down, sweetheart.�
She couldn’t. Her lungs were about to burst. No matter how hard she worked, she couldn’t get enough air. Bees � the sound of buzzing was still in her ears. She heard his voice as if from a great distance, and she felt his arms go around her again as she sank into layers of gray softness.
After what could have been a minute or an hour, pleasant sensations filtered through the haze. A tender pressure moved over her forehead. The gentle brushes touched her eyelids, slid to her cheeks. Strong arms held her against a comfortingly hard surface, while a clean, salt-edged scent filled her nostrils. Her lashes fluttered, and she turned into the warmth with confused pleasure.
“There you are,� came a low murmur.
Opening her eyes, Amelia saw Cam Rohan’s face above her. They were on the hallway floor—he was holding her in his lap. As if the situation weren’t mortifying enough, the front of her bodice was gaping, and her corset was unhooked. Only her crumpled chemise was left to cover her chest.
Amelia stiffened. Until that moment she had never known there was a feeling beyond embarrassment, that made one wish one could crumble into a pile of ashes. “My � my dress…�
“You weren’t breathing well. I thought it best to loosen your corset.�
“I’ve never fainted before,� she said groggily, struggling to sit up.
“You were frightened.â€� His hand came to the center of her chest, gently pressing her back down. “Rest another minute.â€� His gaze moved over her wan features. “I think we can conclude you’re not fond of bees.”
― Lisa Kleypas, Mine Till Midnight

“For better or worse, honeybees are often much too busy to be bothered with personal reflection.”
― Susan Brackney, Plan Bee: Everything You Ever Wanted to Know About the Hardest-Working Creatures on the Planet

“The only time I ever believed that I knew all there was to know about beekeeping was the first year I was keeping them. Every year since I’ve known less and less and have accepted the humbling truth that bees know more about making honey than I do.”
― Sue Hubbell, A Book Of Bees: And How to Keep Them

“The word animal is a derivative of the Greek word anima, which also means soul.”
― Gunther Hauk, Toward Saving the Honeybee

“Awestruck, Flora stared at the dishevelled sisters with their blazing faces and radiant ragged wings, who smelled of no kin but the wild high air.”
― Laline Paull, The Bees

“Respect the colony as an organism rather than a mechanism with interchangeable parts.”
― Gunther Hauk, Toward Saving the Honeybee

“This time of year, the purple blooms were busy with life- not just the bees, but butterflies and ladybugs, skippers and emerald-toned beetles, flitting hummingbirds and sapphire dragonflies. The sun-warmed sweet haze of the blossoms filled the air.
"When I was a kid," said Isabel, "I used to capture butterflies, but I was afraid of the bees. I'm getting over that, though." The bees softly rose and hovered over the flowers, their steady hum oddly soothing. The quiet buzzing was the soundtrack of her girlhood summers. Even now, she could close her eyes and remember her walks with Bubbie, and how they would net a monarch or swallowtail butterfly, studying the creature in a big clear jar before setting it free again. They always set them free.
As she watched the activity in the hedge, a memory floated up from the past- Bubbie, gently explaining to Isabel why they needed to open the jar. "No creature should ever be trapped against its will," she used to say. "It will ruin itself, just trying to escape." As a survivor of a concentration camp, Bubbie only ever spoke of the experience in the most oblique of terms.”
― Susan Wiggs, The Beekeeper's Ball

“I hope it's the good kind of dilemma," Reginald broke Patricia's reverie. "Whatever one you're on the horns of."
...
"I was just thinking," she said. "There are so many scary problems in the world. Like, I was just reading that we could be seeing the last of the bees in North America soon. And if that happened, food webs would just collapse, and tons more people would starve. But suppose you had the power to change things? You still might not be able to fix anything, because every time you solve a problem you'd create another problem. And maybe all these plagues and droughts are nature's way of striking a balance. We humans don't have any natural predators left, so nature has to find another way to handle us."
...
"I am, as you know, a fan of nature," said Reginald. "And yet, nature doesn't 'find ways' to do anything. Nature has no opinion, no agenda. Nature provides a playing field, a not particularly level one, on which we compete with all creatures great and small. It's more that nature's playing field is full of traps.”
― Charlie Jane Anders, All the Birds in the Sky

“So at last Ilar Sant came to this wood, which people now call St. Hilary's wood because they have forgotten all about Ilar. And he was weary with his wandering, and the day was very hot; so he stayed by this well and began to drink. And there on that great stone he saw the shining fish, and so he rested, and built an altar and a church of willow boughs, and offered the sacrifice not only for the quick and the dead, but for all the wild beasts of the woods and the streams.

"And when this blessed Ilar rang his holy bell and began to offer, there came not only the Prince and his servants, but all the creatures of the wood. There, under the hazel boughs, you might see the hare, which flies so swiftly from men, come gently and fall down, weeping greatly on account of the Passion of the Son of Mary. And, beside the hare, the weasel and the pole-cat would lament grievously in the manner of penitent sinners; and wolves and lambs together adored the saint's hierurgy; and men have beheld tears streaming from the eyes of venomous serpents when Ilar Agios uttered 'Curiluson' with a loud voice—since the serpent is not ignorant that by its wickedness sorrow came to the whole world. And when, in the time of the holy ministry, it is necessary that frequent Alleluyas should be chanted and vociferated, the saint wondered what should be done, for as yet none in that place was skilled in the art of song. Then was a great miracle, since from all the boughs of the wood, from every bush and from every green tree, there resounded Alleluyas in enchanting and prolonged harmony; never did the Bishop of Rome listen to so sweet a singing in his church as was heard in this wood. For the nightingale and thrush and blackbird and blackcap, and all their companions, are gathered together and sing praises to the Lord, chanting distinct notes and yet concluding in a melody of most ravishing sweetness; such was the mass of the Fisherman. Nor was this all, for one day as the saint prayed beside the well he became aware that a bee circled round and round his head, uttering loud buzzing sounds, but not endeavouring to sting him. To be short; the bee went before Ilar, and led him to a hollow tree not far off, and straightway a swarm of bees issued forth, leaving a vast store of wax behind them. This was their oblation to the Most High, for from their wax Ilar Sant made goodly candles to burn at the Offering; and from that time the bee is holy, because his wax makes light to shine upon the Gifts.”
― Arthur Machen, The Secret Glory

“My mind feels like a beehive without the buzz.”
― Sudheer Reddy

“The fun part is finding which thoughts, in that crazy beehive of emotion, are the ones that mass produce the honey.”
― Curtis Tyrone Jones

“How were they to square the tremendous wealth they accrued with their image of themselves as frugal and virtuous? Easy: just argue that commerce was itself virtuous. To be rich in corrupt old Europe must be a sign of droneishness; but to be rich in fresh young American was the fruit of hard work. The beehive provided Americans with the ideal image for their religion of work.”
― Bee Wilson

“The garden flourished that summer because Magnus's mother was determined to feed her family despite the depredations of the distant war. In the fall, there were beans and tomatoes and pickles to can, and jar after jar of applesauce. Mama's hives yielded fresh honey, and then willow skeps were winterized. The bees would not come out until the air warmed and the sun appeared.”
― Susan Wiggs, The Beekeeper's Ball

“Anxious to demonstrate her competence, Amelia strode to the other window and began jerking at the closed draperies. “Thank you, Mr. Rohan, but as you can see, I have the situation well in hand.â€�
“I think I’ll stay. Having stopped you from falling through one window, I’d hate for you to go out the other.�
“I won’t. I’ll be fine. I have everything under—� She tugged harder, and the rod clattered to the floor, just as the other had done. But unlike the other curtain, which had been lined with aged velvet, this one was lined with some kind of shimmering rippling fabric, some kind of�
Amelia froze in horror. The underside of the curtain was covered with bees. Bees. Hundreds, no, thousands of them, their iridescent wings beating in an angry relentless hum. They lifted in a mass from the crumpled velvet, while more flew from a crevice in the wall, where an enormous hive simmered. They must have found their way into a hollow space from a decayed spot in the outer wall. The insects swarmed like tongues of flame around Amelia’s paralyzed form.
She felt the blood drain from her face. “Oh, God—�
“Don’t move.� Rohan’s voice was astonishingly calm. “Don’t swat at them.�
She had never known such primal fear, welling up from beneath her skin, leaking through every pore. No part of her body seemed to be under her control. The air was boiling with them, bees and more bees.
It was not going to be a pleasant way to die. Closing her eyes tightly, Amelia willed herself to be still, when every muscle strained and screamed for action. Insects moved in sinuous patterns around her, tiny bodies touching her sleeves, hands, shoulders.
“They’re more afraid of you than you are of them,� she heard Rohan say.
Amelia highly doubted that. “These are not f-frightened ²ú±ð±ð²õ.â€� Her voice didn’t sound like her own. “These are f-furious ²ú±ð±ð²õ.â€�
“They do seem a bit annoyed,� Rohan conceded, approaching her slowly. “It could be the dress you’re wearing—they tend not to like dark colors.� A short pause. “Or it could be the fact that you just ripped down half their hive.�
“If you h-have the nerve to be amused by this—� She broke off and covered her face with her hands, trembling all over.
His soothing voice undercut the buzzing around them. “Be still. Everything’s fine. I’m right here with you.�
“Take me away,� she whispered desperately. Her heart was pounding too hard, making her bones shake, driving every coherent thought from her head. She felt him brush a few inquisitive insects from her hair and back. His arms went around her, his shoulder sturdy beneath her cheek.
“I will, sweetheart.”
― Lisa Kleypas, Mine Till Midnight

“Clumsily she reached for her bodice, trying to pull the reinforced fabric together.
“Allow me. You’re still unsteady.� His hands brushed hers aside and he began to hook her corset deftly.
Clearly he was familiar with the intricacies of a woman’s undergarments. Amelia didn’t doubt there had been more than a few ladies willing to let him practice.
Flustered, she asked, “Was I stung anywhere?�
“No.â€� Mischief flickered in his eyes. “I checked thoroughly.”
― Lisa Kleypas, Mine Till Midnight

“Santa is like a queen bee. All the elves are his drones, who exist to feed him royal jelly, which I guess would be milk and cookies. If an elf escapes and eats royal cookies, it will turn into another Santa. That’s what all those mall Santas are. They’re trying to start their own festive colonies.”
― Thomm Quackenbush, Flies to Wanton Boys

“Some people like bees, always can get out and always can start chasing you.”
― Deyth Banger

“If anaphylactic shock is wrong, I don't wanna bee bite.”
― Wynne McLaughlin

“717! You are behaving like a demented bluebottle - stop that!”
― Laline Paull, The Bees

“The green began to seethe.”
― Laline Paull, The Bees

“It was true. Sugar did treat her bees like next of kin but then again, they were.
Along with her manners, the accent she tried so hard to soften, a single china cup covered in blue daisies and a weathered box of essential oils, they were all she carried with her from her past. Her bees relied on her for shelter and food but she relied on them too. She made her living from their honey, not just the healthful liquid itself but from the salves and gels and tinctures and remedies she created and sold at farm stands or farmers' markets wherever she lived.
It was the most symbiotic of relationships.”
― Sarah-Kate Lynch, The Wedding Bees

“All the bees knew Sugar; they carried their feelings for her with them in their genes, they could sense her from more than half a mile away and would no sooner find her a threat than fly to the moon. But Elizabeth the First sensed Grady Parkes from half a mile away too, and her resulting hum was not one of blissful content. It was his smell, partly: an aftershave, with base notes of tobacco and cedar and a hint of bitter herbs, and his natural scent, which was too sour for Elizabeth the First's liking. She registered him as something to watch out for and passed this on through the realm.”
― Sarah-Kate Lynch, The Wedding Bees

“Tel est toujours le plaisir :
Il excite ceux qui en jouissent
Et comme un essaim d'abeilles,
Une fois répandu son doux miel,
Il disparaît et blesse les cœurs
D'une piqûre sans douceur.”
― µþ´Ç賦±ð, Consolation de la Philosophie