A Colonial Custom <br /> <br />Bathsheba came out to the sun, <br />Out to our wallèd cherry-trees; <br />The tears adown her cheek did run, <br />Bathsheba standing in the sun, <br />Telling the bees. <br /> <br />My mother had that moment died; <br />Unknowing, sped I to the trees, <br />And plucked Bathsheba’s hand aside; <br />Then caught the name that there she cried <br />Telling the bees. <br /> <br />Her look I never can forget, <br />I that held sobbing to her knees; <br />The cherry-boughs above us met; <br />I think I see Bathsheba yet <br />Telling the bees.<br /><br />Lizette Woodworth Reese<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/telling-the-bees-4/
