144 state; pomologicai, society. 



And long to climb the tree another way. 



Dear red-cheeked apples from home trees that fall, 



Ye are far better to my heart, than all 



The golden myths of the Hesperides. 



I love the orchards with their loaded trees, 



I love the glory of the Autumn woods ; 



I love November, with its solitudes ; 



I love the fireside light, in cold December, 



When, looking gayly at the blazing ember, 



We listen, listen, to the sleigh bells' sound, 



And tell old tales, and pass the apples round. 



Not of the fruit alone our lips shall sing; 

 With springtime songs our hearts are echoing. 

 We sing remembered blooms of early May. 

 We dream of blossoms, strewn along our way 

 In days of yore. Their fragrant breath we take 

 And sing of roses for the mother's sake. 

 Yes, though the flowers wither, still we know, 

 Within the fruit, the future petals grow ; 

 And we are sure, where'er we go. 

 Even while the tear drops start. 

 The vanished rose we used to know, 

 Is blooming in the heart. 



Hark. Summer's step is southward bent. 



Her footfall, faint we hear. — 



The air holds not the lilac's scent — 



No robin thrills the ear — 



The leaves are dying, as we go. 



But we sing, as they depart, 



"Though the buds be covered with frost and snow, 



There are roses in the heart." 



The rain is chilling the brown old Earth, 



Stripped of her Summer dress. 



There is warmth and love by the fireside hearth, 



But without, is cheerlessness ; 



For the trees are bare, and the cold winds blow, 



Yet I sing, without fear or art, 



"Though the gardens are covered with frost and snow, 



Roses may bloom in the heart." 



The red-lipped apples fill the bins; 



The purple grapes are gone ; 



The pears are picked ; the sky begins 



To make its yearly moan ; 



But, in the cellar, apples wait 



My longing lips to suit. 



And. if the springtime should be late. 



The heart has golden fruit. 



