Apple Blossoms.

A poem by George W. Doneghy


There's the rose and the lily, the daisy and pink,
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,
And the dew-drops that sparkle no jewels surpass!
In Springtime at evening, at morning, at noon,
How sweet is the scent of the apple trees' bloom!


And when Summer is gone, and Autumn has shed
It's soft, dreamy haze through the trees overhead,
On each spreading branch where blossoms now cling
The red and the gold to the fruit it will bring,
And stripe with a skill and give it that blush
Only Nature can paint with her delicate brush!
O when life ebbs away, then make me a tomb
Right out in the orchard, where the apple trees bloom!

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