The orange glows
In our garden-close
Under the noon
And under the moon,
And though winter-time
Is at its prime,
It seems like the heart of June,
And the mocking-bird sings at the dawning hour
To the orange fruit and the orange flower.


Cold is the theme
Of a bygone dream
Under the noon
And under the moon,
For the breeze has a scent
That is redolent
As a breath from the heart of June,
And the mocking-bird sings at the dawning hour
To the orange fruit and the orange flower.