Here is a poem written by John Greenleaf Whittier about "Telling the Bees" of their keepers passing.
Telling
the Bees
(The
traditional telling the bees
of a recent beekeeper passing)
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.
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 ear sounds on:
'Stay
at home, pretty bees, fly not hence!
Mistress
Mary is dead and gone!'