Who can tell how cherries grow,
From the blossoms’ fragrant snow;
From the balls of green that hide
Under glossy leaves, spread wide,
Till they glisten, every one,
Red as rubies in the sun;
Swelling, warming, till they shine,
Filled with summer’s rosy wine?
Five little babes in a basket,
Up on a swinging bough:
“Open your mouths,” said the mother,
“Here is a feast for you now.”
Mother and babies think it prime
That cherries ripen in robin-time.
Five curly heads at a window,
Watching the merry crew:
“Don’t you wish we were birds in a nest,
So we could have some too?
Wings are better than legs to climb,
And robins are thickest in cherry-time.”
