And he spoke of the architect’s plans.
Then a wave of distress in my heart flowed anew,
For dearly I love each old tree;
Ah me! many secrets are hidden from you
That the apple trees whispered to me.
I used to go by, and the sweet morning air,
Like incense, arose from the spot,
It would crowd from my heart some pain gnawing there,
While the world with its cares was forgot.
Here, I’ve heard the first news of the blue bird and dove,