Telling the Bees

She tenderly kissed me,

She fondly caressed,
And then I fell gently

To sleep on her breast

Deeply to sleep

From the heaven of her breast.

When the light was extinguished,

She covered me warm,

And she prayed to the angels
To keep me from harm—
To the queen of the angels
To shield me from harm.

And I lie so composedly,
Now, in my bed
(Knowing her love),

That you fancy me dead-
And I rest so contentedly,
Now, in my bed

(With her love at my breast),

That you fancy me dead—
That you shudder to look at me,
Thinking me dead.

But my heart it is brighter

Than all of the many

Stars in the sky,

For it sparkles with Annie

It glows with the light

Of the love of my Annie

With the thought of the light
eyes of my Annie.

Of the

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Edgar Allan Poe [1809-1849]

TELLING THE BEES

HERE is the place; right over the hill

Runs the path I took;

You can see the gap in the old wall still,

And the stepping-stones in the shallow brook.

There is the house, with the gate red-barred,
And the poplars tall;

And the barn's brown length, and the cattle-yard,
And the white horns tossing above the wall.

There are the beehives ranged in the sun;
And down by the brink

Of the brook are her poor flowers, weed-o'errun,
Pansy and daffodil, rose and pink.

A

year has gone, as the tortoise goes, Heavy and slow;

And the same rose blows, and the same sun glows, And the same brook sings of a year ago.

There's the same sweet clover-smell in the breeze;
And the June sun warm

Tangles his wings of fire in the trees,
Setting, as then, over Fernside farm.

I mind me how with a lover's care
From my Sunday coat

I brushed off the burrs, and smoothed my hair,
And cooled at the brookside my brow and throat.

Since we parted, a month had passed,—

To love, a year;

Down through the beeches I looked at last

On the little red gate and the well-sweep near.

I can see it all now,-the slantwise rain

Of light through the leaves,

The sundown's blaze on her window-pane,
The bloom of her roses under the eaves.

Just the same as a month before,—

The house and the trees,

The barn's brown gable, the vine by the door,-
Nothing changed but the hives of bees.

A Tryst

Before them, under the garden wall,
Forward and back,

Went drearily singing the chore-girl small,
Draping each hive with a shred of black.

Trembling, I listened: the summer sun
Had the chill of snow;

For I knew she was telling the bees of one
Gone on the journey we all must go!

Then I said to myself, "My Mary weeps
For the dead to-day:

Haply her blind old grandsire sleeps

The fret and the pain of his age away."

But her dog whined low; on the doorway sill
With his cane to his chin,

The old man sat; and the chore-girl still
Sung to the bees stealing out and in.

And the song she was singing ever since
In my ears sounds on:-

"Stay at home, pretty bees, fly not hence!

Mistress Mary is dead and gone!"

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John Greenleaf Whittier [1807-1892]

A TRYST

I WILL not break the tryst, my dear,
That we have kept so long,
Though winter and its snows are here,
And I've no heart for song.

You went into the voiceless night;

Your path led far away.

Did you forget me, Heart's Delight,

As night forgets the day?

Sometimes I think that you would speak

If still you held me dear;

But space is vast, and I am weak

Perchance I do not hear.

Surely, howe'er remote the star
Your wandering feet may tread,
When I shall pass the sundering bar
Our souls must still be wed.

Louise Chandler Moulton [1835-1908]

LOVE'S RESURRECTION DAY

ROUND among the quiet graves,
When the sun was low,

Love went grieving,-Love who saves:
Did the sleepers know?

At his touch the flowers awoke,
At his tender call

Birds into sweet singing broke,
And it did befall

From the blooming, bursting sod

All Love's dead arose,

And went flying up to God

By a way Love knows.

Louise Chandler Moulton [1835-1908]

HEAVEN

ONLY to find Forever, blest
By thine encircling arm;

Only to lie beyond unrest

In passion's dreamy calm!

Only to meet and never part,

To sleep and never wake,

Heart unto heart and soul to soul,

Dead for each other's sake.

Martha Gilbert Dickinson [18

JANETTE'S HAIR

OH, loosen the snood that you wear, Janette,

Let me tangle a hand in your hair-my pet;

Janette's Hair

For the world to me had no daintier sight

Than your brown hair veiling your shoulders white;
Your beautiful dark brown hair-my pet.

It was brown with a golden gloss, Janette,

It was finer than silk of the floss-my pet;

'Twas a beautiful mist falling down to your wrist,

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'Twas a thing to be braided, and jewelled, and kissed'Twas the loveliest hair in the world-my pet.

My arm was the arm of a clown, Janette,
It was sinewy, bristled, and brown-my pet;
But warmly and softly it loved to caress
Your round white neck and your wealth of tress,
Your beautiful plenty of hair-my pet.

Your eyes had a swimming glory, Janette.
Revealing the old, dear story-my pet;

They were gray with that chastened tinge of the sky
When the trout leaps quickest to snap the fly,

And they matched with your golden hair-my pet.

Your lips-but I have no words, Janette-
They were fresh as the twitter of birds-my pet,
When the spring is young, and the roses are wet,
With the dewdrops in each red bosom set,

And they suited your gold brown hair-my pet.

Oh, you tangled my life in your hair, Janette,
'Twas a silken and golden snare-my pet;
But, so gentle the bondage, my soul did implore
The right to continue your slave evermore,

With my fingers enmeshed in your hair-my pet.

Thus ever I dream what you were, Janette,

With your lips, and your eyes, and your hair—my pet,
In the darkness of desolate years I moan,

And my tears fall bitterly over the stone
That covers your golden hair-my pet.

Charles Graham Halpine [1829-1868]