  The drowsy drone of honey-laden bees, The poppied breath of gardens blooming fair, The scent of elder blossoms, sweet and rare, Come stealing in on balmy southern breeze; And dying lays, whose long lost melodies Still haunt old storied ruins everywhere, Are dimly floating through the fragrant air— I dream beneath the blooming apple trees: A merry orchestra of nymphs and fays Has gathered in the pine-tree's elfin shade, With naiad shell and fairy reed and string, While Minturn Peck the magic baton sways. And when the band his "Rhymes and Roses," played, The dryads' voices made the woodlands ring! |
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