Apple-Blossom
Ah, yes! How lovely youth and beauty are!
She lay along the low, recumbent limb
Of the old apple tree, her light guitar
She fingered when she sang, in girlish whim,
Green-ribboned, on her bosom rose and fell.
Her gown was palest green, and that was well.
The light, with a half a glory, half a gloom,
Flickered and filtered through the apple-bloom.
Her cheek was like the blossoms' own in tint
And softly rounded contour; just a hint
Of rosy flush. Her wealth of waving hair
Fell to the ground and made a radiance there.
Fresh fancies, light and gay as butterflies,
Fluttered and frolicked in her sunny eyes.
Against the trunk she braced her dainty feet,
And she was sweet as the young Spring is sweet.
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