A dome of blossom rises overhead,
Piled like the snows upon some Alpine height,
And blushing with such tints of pink and red
As summer clouds may wear in vesper light.
Dew-spangled — pierced with sudden shafts of gold
That slide between the latticed boughs below;
A little world of bloom, that seems to fold
Birds, bees, and sunbeams in a tender glow.
Life is so sweet beneath this fairy bower
That the full heart must tremble in its bliss,
And fear lest wanton breeze or hasty shower
Should harm one petal by a careless kiss.
. . . . . . . .