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 Every young leaf had sprung crisp and clean— A sprightly cresset of gold-and-green, Strongly held to the burnish’d Blue, For its light to come leaping through. Baby bunches of blossom early Peeped from under them, flush’d and pearly. —Nothing fresher ever was seen, Than that world of pink-and-white-and-green, With the dark of the half-hid rind between, And over it, high, with cloudlets to fly And flutter like petals, the blue-and-white sky.

But by what kind miracle, ’Mid all this bloom and budding, And Spring-flower-flooding, Came ripe fruit, as well? Peaches, the colour of sunrise, Good apples, with firm flesh, Damsons, raspberries, strawberries, Oranges, apricots, mulberries, Plums and nectarines, figs, and grapes, And round-cheek’d cherries fresh! Ay, the same beams that maidenly bid Yon shy little buds from their coverlid, Here lusty and strong In an urchin throng, Juicy clusters and globes amid, Came roystering, rioting, romping along; Set black to burning, and brown to blushing, Crimson to blazing, green to flushing, Yellow to mellowing, gold to glowing, Brave hot colour growing and flowing; And subtly summon’d from all and each A luscious, delicious perfume rich.