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!"
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]