The Farm

Far in the soft warm west
There lies an orchard-nest,
Where every spring the black-caps come
And build themselves a downy home.
The apple-boughs entwine,
And make a net-work fine
Through which the morning vapours pass
That rise from off the dewy grass.

And when the spring-warmth shoots
Along the apple roots,
The gnarled old boughs grow full of buds
That gleam and leaf in multitudes.
And then, first cold and white,
Soon flushing with delight;
The blossom-heads come out and blow,
And mimic sunset-tinted snow.

Just where my farm-house ends
A single gable bends,
And one small window ivy-bound,
Looks into this enchanted ground.
I sit there while I write,
And dream in the dim light
That floods the misty orchard through
A pale-green vapour tinged with blue.

And watch the growing year
The flowers that spring and peer,
The apple-bloom that melts away,
The colours of the changing day.
The falling blossom fills
The cups of daffodils,
That loll their perfume-haunted heads
Along the feathery parsley-beds.