Beauty, because beauty is in the eye of the bee-holder!
Tears from the pain of the sting.
My head and tail both equal are, My middle slender as a bee. Whether I stand on head or heel Is quite the same to you or me. But if my head should be cut off, The matter's true, though passing strange Directly I to nothing change. What am I?
On clear days I search in silence, my cool eye a shade of pale. In billowing thickness, with glaring red eye I screech and wail. My power keeps you from the glow. Ever-ready, you'll know to go. What am I?
