To a gardener, “bees” (Line 88) are essential since they pollinate what successfully grows. When Gay discovers “two or three dead / fist-sized clutches of bees” (Lines 87-88), his grief is hard-hitting. However, these insects leave a legacy. Although these “bees” (Line 88) didn’t make it, they’ve left behind their “honey” (Line 96) along with any plants they were able to aid. Gay wants the reader to see this as a metaphor for life’s experiences as he refers to it in when he gives the “dear reader” (Line 104) a “cup of tea” (Line 107). He notes in particular that he “[has] spooned honey into it” (Line 107). Like tea, life can have a bitter taste. It is filled with the death of the things we love, from cherished items to essential people. Gay knows this and offers it up anyway, both the eerie “quiet [that] roved / the beehive” (Lines 85-86) postmortem and the still “glacial shine” (Line 97) of the bright world. He, like we should, “spooned honey into” (Line 107) that which is bitter, making a concentrated effort to highlight sweetness despite, or because of, inevitable tragedy.