Till, cloyed with sweets, the tiny gauze wings fold.
Above the vine-wreathed porch the old trees bend,
Shaking their beauty down like drifted snow:
And as we gaze, the lovely blossoms send
Fair visions of the days of long ago.
Yes, apple blossom time has come again,
But still the breezes waft the perfumes old,
And everywhere in wood, and field, and glen
The same old life appears in lovelier mold.
—Nora A. Piper.