The east is a clear violet mass Behind the houses high; The laborers with their kettles pass; The carts are creaking by. Carved out against the tender sky, The convent gables lift; Half way below the old boughs lie Heaped in a great white drift. They tremble in the passionate air; They part, and clean and sweet The cherry flakes fall here, fall there; A handful stirs the street. The workmen look up as they go; And one, remembering plain How white the Irish orchards below, Turns back, and looks again. |