Page:Poems Larcom.djvu/223

There is no glory of the trees like thine,
Though there be many set in Paradise;
There must thou blossom also.

There must thou blossom also. Dreams are lost
In guessing at the glory of thy boughs
In that immortal spring-time.

In that immortal spring-time. Ah! dear friends,
Sweet memories of the earth, and sad no more,
Will float around us in the air of heaven,
A fragrance and a melody, when we,
Young, glad, and all as if at home again,
Sit under our transplanted apple-trees.