The time of apple blooms has come again,

And drowsy winds are laden with perfume;

In village street, in grove and sheltered glen

The happy warblers set the air atune.

Each swaying motion of the bud-sweet trees

Scatters pale, fragrant petals everywhere;

Reveals the tempting nectar cups to bees

That gild their thighs with pollen. Here and there

The cunning spoilers roam, and dream and sip

The honey-dew from chalices of gold;

The brimming cups are drained from lip to lip

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.