SOME spring, for every lover, Must hedges flower unseen And brown and red wings hover And fields have back their green; The wild azalea brighten A hillside for the bees And clouds of fragrance whiten The black-boughed cherry trees. Grain must again grow yellow As harvests come and pass, And apples, warm and mellow, Lie in the orchard grass. But will he know, who slumbers Where come no dreams to bless, With all forgotten summers And all lost loveliness? |