142 state; pomological society. 



APPLES AND ROSES. 

 By Julia Harris May. 



What shall I write, 



wise Pomologists, for you tonight? 



You who have watched the reddening apples fall, 



1 that have done no harvesting at all. 



You that have nurtured apples, pears and plums, 

 I that have spent my life in "doing sums 

 Or writing verses, 



What new thing can I 

 Write for your pleasure? 



I can only try 

 From old, old books, or folios, to cull 

 Something of fruit, or flowers beautiful. 

 In musty drawers, or mouldy desks, maybe. 

 An ancient myth shall make a rhyme for me. 

 Then listen ! Look ! Upon your arms I throw 

 A poem, gathered from the long ago. 



Yes, long ago. 

 Longer than oldest calendars can show. 

 There lived a maiden, radiant and fair, 

 Her name Pomona ; golden was her hair ; 

 Pink was her cheek and stately was her mein ; 

 Warm was her heart, and luscious was her lip. 

 Vertumnus longed its honey-dew to sip. 

 But, as he neared her, clad in robes of green 

 She fled before him. 



Sometimes, to his sight, 

 She showed herself, a nymph of shining light. 

 And then she vanished, — 



Other lovers sought 

 To woo the maiden, but she loved them not. 

 "If I might win her," wise Vertumnus cried, 

 "Though by deceit, I should be satisfied." 

 And so, one day, he took the ugly form 

 Of an old woman. — Through a blinding storm. 

 He sought Pomona ; told a woeful tale 

 Of women, sad, and poor, and wan, and pale ; 

 Of maidens, lovelorn, and unfortunate; 

 He touched her heart. (She was compassionate.) 

 And then, transformed into a blooming youth, 

 Told his own tale, of Love, and Hope, and Truth, 

 Till she loved also ; and, she went with him 

 To Hymen's grove, and, 'neath the shadows dim, 



