APPLE BLOSSOMS.
UP through the wood-path, with bird-songs about her,
May has come softly, the beautiful child!
Skies that were sullen and Joyless without her,
Broke into sunshine above her, and smiled.
Green on the uplands the wheat-fields are springing,
Cowslips are shining, and daisies are white;
Through the still meadow the waters are singing,
Brimming with melody, flashing with light.
Blooming with clover the orchards are growing,
Flecked by the shadows that tremble and glide;
Round their gray trunks, when the west wind is blowing,
Sways the young grass in a billowy tide.
Strong as the arms of a giant, yet tender,
See what a treasure they lift to the sky!
Take your red roses—aflame with their splendor—
We love the apple-trees,—Robin and I.
Hark! How the oriole, flashing and glowing—
Trills his clear whistle, so mellow and mild,
Where, o'er their tops with a lavish bestowing,
Drift upon drift, the sweet blossoms are piled.
Where is the lip that has worthily sung them,—
Tinted like seashells, or whiter than snow?
Bees, all the day, as they linger among them,
Drowsy with nectar, are murmuring low.
Pillowed beneath them, I dream as I listen
How the long summer above them shall shine,
Till on the boughs the ripe fruitage shall glisten,
Tawny awl golden, or redder than wine.
In the bright days of the mellow September,
How we shall shout as we gather them in,—
Hoarding their wealth for the chilly December,
Heaping them high in the cellar and bin.
Then, when the snow in the moonlight is gleaming,
Up from the darkness the apples we'll bring,
Praising their sweets, where the firelight is beaming;
Globes of rich nectar, a poet might sing.
Tales of the Vikings our lips will be telling;
Yet, when the Sagas are done, we shall say,
"Here's to the land where the summer is dwelling!
Here's to the apple-tree, monarch of May!"
—Emily Huntington Miller