THERE'S a flush on the face of the apple-trees; There are buds and blossoms and leaves all over. The bees have found—oh, the small wise bees!— There's a green lane full of the sweet red clover. My love is a maid with a rose for her mouth, And I hear her voice when the linnets sing. My love is a dream from the soft, sweet South; My love is a maid, and her name is Spring. |