Whitely to stand at the window scarce seen,
Over the garden to peer in the May-dawn
Past to the fruit-close whose pale boughs not green
Slowly reveal a fresh faintness a-flutter
White to the young grass and pink to the sky?
O, then a low call to waking we utter:
"Bluth, lasses, apple-bluth spirts low and high."
Out, lasses, out, to the apple-garth hasten—
Nay, never tarry to net your glad hair—
Here are no lovers your kissed shoes to fasten