Where, in what ever-blissfully watered gardens, upon what trees

Where, in what ever-blissfully watered gardens, upon what trees,

out of, oh, what gently dispetalled flower-cups do these

so strange-looking fruits of consolation mature?

Delicious, when, now and then, you pick one up in the poor

trampled field of your poverty. Time and again you find

yourself lost in wonder over the size of the fhiit,

over its wholesomeness, over its smooth, soft rind,

and that neither the heedless bird above nor jealous worm at the root

has been before you. Are there, then, trees where angels will congregate,

trees invisible leisurely gardeners so curiously cultivate,

that, without being ours, they bear for us fruits like those?

Have, we, then, never been able, we shadows and shades,

with our doing that ripens too early and then as suddenly fades,

to disturb that even-tempered summer's repose?