Here, where the whitest blossoms blow,
The reddest and ripest berries grow.
“Gather the cones which lie concealed,
With their vines your foreheads wreathing;
The strawberry-field its sweets shall yield
While the western winds are breathing.
“Softly the rivulet’s ripples flow;
Dark is the grove that lovers know;
Here, where the whitest blossoms blow,
The reddest and ripest berries grow.”