There is a rose-cloud in the east,
A cloud of gold and rose,
And like a flood, the mellow light
Adown the valley, flows.
The flowers are on our apple trees -
The fresh, sweet-scented flowers –
And softly o’er the beds of moss,
Glide on the morning hours.
– Lucia Fidelia Wooley “Heart-Notes, to Mother” Pebbles From The Shore (1879) p.29