Brightly its waves may reach their parent-deep at last.
ORCHARD-BLOSSOMS.
Doth thy heart stir within thee at the sight
Of orchard-blooms upon the mossy bough?
Doth their sweet household-smile waft back the glow
Of childhood’s morn—the wondering, fresh delight
In earth’s new colouring, then all strangely bright,
A joy of fairyland? Doth some old nook,
Haunted by visions of thy first-loved book,
Rise on thy soul, with faint-streak’d blossoms white