Song of the Queen Bee

Song of the Queen Bee
By E.B. White

New Yorker Magazine 1945

"The breeding of the bee," says a United States Department
of Agriculture bulletin on artificial insemination, "has
always been handicapped by the fact that the queen mates
in the air with whatever drone she encounters."

When the air is wine and the wind is free
and the morning sits on the lovely lea
and sunlight ripples on every tree
Then love-in-air is the thing for me
I'm a bee,
I'm a ravishing, rollicking, young queen bee,
That's me.
I wish to state that I think it's great,
Oh, it's simply rare in the upper air,
It's the place to pair
With a bee.

Let old geneticists plot and plan,
They're stuffy people, to a man;
Let gossips whisper behind their fan.
(Oh, she does?
Buzz, buzz, buzz!)
My nuptial flight is sheer delight;
I'm a giddy girl who likes to swirl,
To fly and soar
And fly some more,
I'm a bee.
And I wish to state that I'll always mate
With whatever drone I encounter.

There's a kind of a wild and glad elation
In the natural way of insemination;
Who thinks that love is a handicap
Is a fuddydud and a common sap,
For I am a queen and I am a bee,
I'm devil-may-care and I'm fancy-free,
The test tube doesn't appeal to me,
Not me,
I'm a bee.
And I'm here to state that I'll always mate
With whatever drone I encounter.

Mares and cows. by calculating,
Improve themselves with loveless mating,
Let groundlings breed in the modern fashion,
I'll stick to the air and the grand old passion;
I may be small and I'm just a bee
But I won't have science improving me,
Not me,
I'm a bee.
On a day that's fair with a wind that's free,
Any old drone is a lad for me.

I've no flair for love moderne,
It's far too studied, far too stern,
I'm just a bee---I'm wild, I'm free,
That's me.
I can't afford to be too choosy;
In every queen there's a touch of floozy,
And it's simply rare
In the upper air
And I wish to state
That I'll always mate
With whatever drone I encounter.

Man is a fool for the latest movement,
He broods and broods on race improvement;
What boots it to improve a bee
If it means the end of ecstasy?
(He ought to be there
On a day that's fair,
Oh, it's simply rare.
For a bee.)

Man's so wise he is growing foolish,
Some of his schemes are downright ghoulish;
He owns a bomb that'll end creation
And he wants to change the sex relation,
He thinks that love is a handicap,
He's a fuddydud, he's a simple sap;
Man is a meddler, man's a boob,
He looks for love in the depths of a tube,
His restless mind is forever ranging,
He thinks he's advancing as long as he's changing,
He cracks the atom, he racks his skull,
Man is meddlesome, man is dull,
Man is busy instead of idle,
Man is alarmingly suicidal,
Me, I am a bee.

I am a bee and I simply love it,
I am a bee and I'm darn glad of it,
I am a bee, I know about love:
You go upstairs, you go above,
You do not pause to dine or sup,
The sky won't wait ---it's a long trip up;
You rise, you soar, you take the blue,
It's you and me, kid, me and you,
It's everything, it's the nearest drone,
It's never a thing that you find alone.
I'm a bee,
I'm free.

If any old farmer can keep and hive me,
Then any old drone may catch and wife me;
I'm sorry for creatures who cannot pair
On a gorgeous day in the upper air,
I'm sorry for cows that have to boast
Of affairs they've had by parcel post,
I'm sorry for a man with his plots and guile,
His test-tube manner, his test-tube smile;
I'll multiply and I'll increase
As I always have---by mere caprice;
For I am a queen and I am a bee,
I'm devil-may-care and I'm fancy-free,
Love-in-air is the thing for me,
Oh, it's simply rare
In the beautiful air,
And I wish to state
That I'll always mate
With whatever drone I encounter.


About the Poem

E.B. White’s poem “Song of the Queen Bee,” first published in The New Yorker in 1945, is a clever and spirited satire that juxtaposes the natural instincts of bees with the scientific efforts of human intervention, particularly artificial insemination in agriculture. Written in the voice of a vivacious and unapologetically free-spirited queen bee, the poem champions instinct, spontaneity, and natural selection over modern, mechanized reproductive control. Beneath its playful rhymes and jaunty tone lies a poignant critique of mid-20th-century scientific rationalism and a celebration of freedom, joy, and natural order.

The poem opens with a dry quotation from a U.S. Department of Agriculture bulletin, which laments the uncontrolled nature of bee reproduction—namely that “the queen mates in the air with whatever drone she encounters.” White immediately counters this bureaucratic tone with a burst of lively verse, allowing the queen bee herself to take the stage in a whimsical monologue that is part burlesque, part manifesto. With lines like “I’m devil-may-care and I’m fancy-free,” the queen revels in her role as a creature of instinct and sensual freedom. She mocks the efforts of scientists (“Let old geneticists plot and plan”) and romanticizes the ecstasy of natural mating flights—elevating love, not as a sterile process, but as an exhilarating and sacred ritual in “the upper air.”

Throughout, White uses breezy rhymes and playful repetition to contrast the sterile control of modern science with the lyrical abandon of natural life. Phrases such as “I'll always mate / With whatever drone I encounter” become refrains that assert autonomy and challenge-imposed order. Importantly, the poem does not argue against science wholesale—it critiques a specific kind of arrogance: mankind's “test-tube manner” and the belief that all life should conform to rational systems. In White’s telling, this hubris leads to folly and even destruction: “He owns a bomb that'll end creation / And he wants to change the sex relation.” The poem culminates in a bold affirmation of life lived on its own terms—wild, instinctual, and gloriously imperfect.

By adopting the perspective of a bee, White both satirizes and humanizes this argument. The queen is irreverent, humorous, and joyfully defiant, serving as a stand-in for nature herself—resisting reduction and refusing to be “improved.” Her message is clear: love, life, and freedom are too rare and too beautiful to be confined by the narrow vision of “improvers.”


About the Poet

E.B. White (1899–1985) was an American writer best known for his contributions to both children's literature and essays that captured the American spirit with elegance and wit. Born in Mount Vernon, New York, White graduated from Cornell University in 1921, where he earned the nickname "Andy," a name he carried throughout his life. He began his career as a journalist before joining The New Yorker magazine in its early days, where his clear, playful prose helped define the publication’s distinctive style.

White is perhaps most beloved for his classic children's books, including Charlotte's Web (1952), Stuart Little (1945), and The Trumpet of the Swan (1970), each celebrated for their humor, tenderness, and profound insights into life and friendship. In addition to his fiction, he co-authored the widely influential writing guide The Elements of Style with his former professor William Strunk Jr., further cementing his legacy as a master of prose. White's work earned him numerous honors, including a Pulitzer Prize special citation in 1978.

Throughout his life, White combined a deep love of nature, animals, and rural life with a sharp observation of human nature. Whether reflecting on the bustle of city life or the quiet rhythms of his Maine farm, his writing remains enduring for its humanity, clarity, and understated wisdom.