Classic Poem

It is the white Plum Tree
Seven days fair
As a bride goes combing
Her joy of hair.

As a peacock dowered
With golden eyes
Ten paces over
The Orange lies.

It is the white Plum Tree
Her passion tells,
As a young maid rustling,
She so excels.

The birds run outward,
The birds are low,
Whispering in manna
The sweethearts go.

It is the white Plum Tree
Seven days fair
As a bride goes combing
Her joy of hair.