APPLE BLOSSOMS.
45
Who but thou whose pangs of travail,
E'en the angels dread to see,
Clasping close thine infant blessing,
Should its fittest guardian be.
But the darkening clouds are lifting,
From thy Future's sunlit sky,
Truest dower of right and blessing,
God shall give thee bye and bye.
E'en the angels dread to see,
Clasping close thine infant blessing,
Should its fittest guardian be.
But the darkening clouds are lifting,
From thy Future's sunlit sky,
Truest dower of right and blessing,
God shall give thee bye and bye.
APPLE BLOSSOMS.
Oh! snowy blooms, your faint perfume,
Your rose-tipped clusters sweet,
Have come again, and veiled the boughs,
O'er lanes where lovers meet.
Adown, the orchard's sloping green,
Lies hid in seas of white,
Your petals showering softly down,
In May-time's golden light.
Your rose-tipped clusters sweet,
Have come again, and veiled the boughs,
O'er lanes where lovers meet.
Adown, the orchard's sloping green,
Lies hid in seas of white,
Your petals showering softly down,
In May-time's golden light.
Drift down, drift down, your shimmering bloom,
The fragrance of your golden hearts,
Oh! flowers of May, open thy leaves,
As ope's my tranced heart.
The fragrance of your golden hearts,
Oh! flowers of May, open thy leaves,
As ope's my tranced heart.
