Apple Blossom Girl
She's in the field, not in the valley,
and weaves a braid with fresh-blown flowers;
she's in the woods - not forests shady -
with nature's music passing hours.
She's by the lake, not by the ocean,
whose waters seldom know commotion;
she's in the garden, not the moors,
nor near the fall's majestic roars.
She has not passed from storm to peace -
no thunder ever shook her summer;
when passing I will never cease
to pause and hear this artless hummer.
Serene her temples as a sage,
though she's a dew-clad May in age;
a nature peaceful – free from fault -
as stars that blink in heaven's vault.
Around her mouth a laughter dances -
I know not why – nor hunger to;
my soul's transparent in her glances -
she's ageless as these rocks in view.
She's fragile-strong as swooning swan,
as secret as the dappled dawn -
when in her cottage she has gone
her fountain ever trickles on.