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[188] 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 ear sounds on:—
“Stay at home, pretty bees, fly not hence!
     Mistress Mary is dead and gone!”

1858.

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