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 colouring, then all strangely bright,
A joy of fairyland? 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 dreary 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 endear spring-memories to the end.
8th May.