The peaches redden on the wall.
Hiding in hollow cells of green,
Where plaited leaves hang thick about,
And scarce permit them to be seen;
And so, in truth, good deeds should be
Concealed in sweet humility.
The peaches redden on the wall.
Though night's dark curtain drips with dew;
The white stars show themselves, and shine
Through moulded cloud and hovering blue.
And, oh! to feel, past fruit and tree
The lights of home shine forth for me.