Come from the upland orchard hill,
Niches in her dreams to fill.

Dotted is her rustic shawl
With the apple-leaves that fall:
Twilight splendors cover all.

Deeper lined than earthly grace,
Rest of heaven doth in her face
Rejoice in its abiding-place.

Charity Cross, it groweth late:
Household duties for you wait,
Just beyond the garden-gate.

Leave the apple-blooms to fall,
Far-off brook to vainly call:
Lightly climb the orchard wall.

All your dreamings softly fold:
Let them drift away untold
In the dying sunset's gold.

Down the path that leads between
Ferns and mosses, shaded green,
The gabled house is dimly seen.

Winds, with poplar trees at play,
Chafe with tossing boughs all day
Weather-beaten walls of gray.