There is an orchard, old and rare,

(I cannot tell you where!)

With green doors opening to the sun;

And the sky-children gather there

To watch the blossoms, one by one,

Falling wistfully thru the air

From the trees’ dishevelled hair.

The sky-children shake their wings

With flutterings and gurglings—

And love the light and kiss the sun,

Nor heed the blossoms that have blown

From the fruit-wives’ ancient hair

Earthward thru the glowing air,

Wistfully—one by one.