All lovely in the latticed dew,
And heavy with low boughs hoary,
The apple trees put forth anew
Their old enchanted glory.
Rose-misted mass and myriad,
White as a white-cloud's bosom,
The clinging, climbing bees go mad
Among the trembling blossom.
While from a spire of rosy snow
The top-most boughs adorning,
A thrush, half hidden, sings below
The heavenly blue of morning.
Amid celestial peace, where dross
Material reckoning falters,
The thrush sings on a budded cross
At Beauty's very altars ....
Old trees, so gloriously young,
Thick petals, thronged with bees,
Have I glimpsed heaven to-day among
The blossoming apple trees?
First published in The Sydney Morning Herald, 15 April 1933
