A Colonial Custom br br Bathsheba came out to the sun, br Out to our wallèd cherry-trees; br The tears adown her cheek did run, br Bathsheba standing in the sun, br Telling the bees. br br My mother had that moment died; br Unknowing, sped I to the trees, br And plucked Bathsheba’s hand aside; br Then caught the name that there she cried br Telling the bees. br br Her look I never can forget, br I that held sobbing to her knees; br The cherry-boughs above us met; br I think I see Bathsheba yet br Telling the bees.