APPLES.
ONE for you, and one for me,
Ripe, and red as a rose can be;
With a spicy breath like the airs that play
On the blossoming gardens of fair Cathay.
This is the side where all day long
Lingered the sunshine, clear and strong;
Down to the very core, I know,
Still is hoarded the summer glow.
I can tell you where they grew,
By the orchard wall, where the brook comes thro',
Crystal clear in the frost and rime,
Lost in the grass in summer time.
This is the place where first in May
Pale blue violets hide away,
Half ashamed of their faces fair,
When blossoms whiten the branches bare.
Gnarled and twisted the tree has grown,
Leaning south as the wind has blown;
Here and there are the scars that show
Terrible winters of ice and snow.
Yet to the topmost bough in spring,
Fair and tender the blossoms cling;
Year by year, in its shelter wide,
Callow nestlings the robins hide.
Year by year, when the summer days
Melt and mellow in golden haze,
Bright as jewels the apples shine,
Swelling with autumn's odorous wine.
Leaning over the orchard wall,
One by one, you may hear them fall;
One by one, from the dear old tree
That fed their sweetness for you and me.
Emily Huntington Miller