Runs the path I took; 

   And the stepping-stones in the shallow brook. 

There is the house, with the gate red-barred,

   And the poplars tall; 

   And the white horns tossing above the wall. 

There are the beehives ranged in the sun;

   And down by the brink 

   Pansy and daffodil, rose and pink. 

A year has gone, as the tortoise goes,

   Heavy and slow; 

   And the same brook sings of a year ago. 

There ’s the same sweet clover-smell in the breeze;

   And the June sun warm 

   Setting, as then, over Fernside farm. 

I mind me how with a lover’s care

   From my Sunday coat 

   And cooled at the brookside my brow and throat. 

Since we parted, a month had passed,—

   To love, a year; 

   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 bloom of her roses under the eaves. 

Just the same as a month before,—

   The house and the trees, 

   Nothing changed but the hives of bees. 

Before them, under the garden wall,

   Forward and back, 

   Draping each hive with a shred of black. 

Trembling, I listened: the summer sun

   Had the chill of snow; 

   Gone on the journey we all must go! 

Then I said to myself, “My Mary weeps

   For the dead to-day: 

   The fret and the pain of his age away.” 

But her dog whined low; on the doorway sill,

   With his cane to his chin, 

   Sung to the bees stealing out and in. 

And the song she was singing ever since

   In my ear sounds on:— 

   Mistress Mary is dead and gone!”