Classic Poem

Could any slope be lovelier, e'en in May,
Than this, bedecked in peach-bloom, where is seen
The clustered pink against a floor of green,
As if the hill were one superb bouquet?
Faint airs of Persia linger in each spray;
Here Beauty, reigning in this rare demesne,
Trails her rich garments like an orient queen,
All roseate as the clouds at dawn of day:
But when the lithe boughs, laden to the tips
With golden ovals pulped with luscious mell,—
When crimsoned globes invite the eager lips
With fruity honey, then, across the years,
The Eden Gardener, wheresoe'r he dwell,
Must look with longing on the nectared spheres!