And many rare flowers which others may think

Are the fairest and best, the sweetest that blow,

With delicious perfume, and colors that glow—

But go to the orchard and sniff the delight

Of the incense that's shed by the pink and the white,

And let the soul float away in a swoon

On the ambient air where the apple trees bloom!

There's the cowslip, narcissus, and sweet mignonette,

The asters, verbenas, the fuschias; and yet,

As much as I love them in Summer array,

It's the white and the pink I dream of to-day,

And I walk 'neath the branches that just interlace

And shower their blossoms right down in my face

When the breeze that is laden with rarest perfume

Is wafted along where the apple trees bloom!

With glad voices the birds as they flit to and fro

Are singing their songs where the pink and the snow

Of the orchard, bedecked in its garments so rare,

Is diffusing and sending its breath on the air;

And the rays of the sun sift through on the grass,

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