Counting the Stars

The cuckoo bird has long gone home
And owls instead and flitting jars
Call out, call out for us to come,
My Love and me, to count the stars;
And into this wide orchard rove —
The whispering trees scarce give us room,
They drop their petals on my Love
And me beneath the apple bloom.

And each pale petal is alive
With dew of twilight from the sky,
Where all the stars hang in their hive —
Such scores to count, my Love and I!
The boughs below, the boughs above,
We scatter, lest their twisted gloom
Should stay the counting of my Love
And me beneath the apple bloom.

And when the Mother Moon comes by
And puts the little stars to bed,
We count, my timid Love and I,
The pretty apple stars instead;
Until at last all lights remove,
And dark sleep, dropping on the combe,
Fastens the eyelids of my Love
And me beneath the apple bloom.
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