The Peach Blossoms

Come here! come here! cousin Mary, and see
What fair, ripe peaches there are on the tree—
On the very same bough that was given to me
By father, one day last spring.
When it looked so beautiful, all in the blow,
And I wanted to pluck it, he told me, you know,
I might, but that waiting a few months would show
The fruit, that patience might bring.

And as I perceived, by the sound of his voice,
And the look of his eye it was clearly his choice
That it should not be touched, I have now to rejoice
That I told him we'd let it remain;
For, had it been gathered when full in the flower,
Its blossoms had withered, perhaps, in an hour,
And nothing on earth could have given the power
That would make them flourish again.

But now, of a fruit so delicious and sweet
I've enough for myself and my playmates a treat;
And they tell me, besides, that the kernels secrete
What, if planted, will make other trees:
For the shell will come open to let down the root;
A sprout will spring up, whence the branches will shoot;
There'll be buds, leaves, and blossoms; and then comes the fruit—
Such beautiful peaches as these!

And Nature, they say, like a mighty machine,
Has a wheel in a wheel, which, if aught comes between,
It ruins her work, as it might have been seen,
Had it not given patience this trial.
From this, I'll be careful to keep it in mind,
When the blossoms I love, that there lingers behind
A better reward, that the trusting shall find
For a trifling self-denial.