Classic Poem

VIII.—ORCHARD BLOSSOMS

Doth thy heart stir within thee at the sight
Of orchard blooms upon the mossy bough?
Doth their sweet household smile waft back the glow
Of childhood's morn?—the wondering fresh delight
In earth's new coloring, then all strangely bright.
A joy of fairy land?—Doth some old nook,
Haunted by visions of thy first-loved book,
Rise on thy soul, with faint-streak'd blossoms white,
Shower'd o'er the turf, and the lone primrose knot,
And robin's nest, still faithful to the spot,
And the bee's dreamy chime?—O gentle friend!
The world's cold breath, not Time's, this life bereaves
Of vernal gifts—Time hallows what he leaves,
And will for us dear spring-memories to the end.