In Cherry Valley the cherries blow:
The valley paths are white as snow.
And in their time with clusters red
The scented boughs are crimsoned.
Even now the moon is looking thro’
The glimmer of the honey dew.
A petal trembles to the grass,
The feet of fairies pass and pass.
By them, I know, all beauty comes
To me, a habitan of slums.
I sing no rune, I say no line:
The gift of second sight is mine!