SPRING FANCY

There is an orchard, old and rare, (I cannot tell you where!) With green doors opening to the sun; And the sky-children gather there To watch the blossoms, one by one, Falling wistfully thru the air From the trees’ dishevelled hair. The sky-children shake their wings With flutterings and gurglings— And love the light and kiss the sun, Nor heed the blossoms that have blown From the fruit-wives’ ancient hair Earthward thru the glowing air, Wistfully—one by one.