STATE POMOLOGICAL SOCIETY. I45 



The mountains were blue in tlie August days, 



But now, they are tipped with white ; 



And a cloud, just above the summit, stays; 



The snow will be falling to-night — 



But we sit by the tire-light's ruddy glow. 



And sing, "Let the Summer depart — 



Though the Earth be covered with drifts of snow, 



Roses may bloom in the heart." 



Thicker and faster the snowflakes fall ; 



Higher the pale drifts rise; 



The bushes are covered, and white drifts all 



Lift their white arms to the skies ; 



December is coming, but, far below, 



Sweet buds are ready to start : 



And the Summer her backward way shall know 



By the roses in the heart. 



Then, while the snowflakes for the rose leaves fall, 



And old Novembers through the windows call. 



With memories in my heart, a fragrant throng, 



I raise my voice to sing a harvest song. 



Not of the Gardens of Hesperides, 



The golden apples upon golden trees, 



Not of the apple, royal Paris gave 



To Venus for her beauty, would I have 



My Harvest Hymn. — 



Not those that Mother Eve 

 Gave to her husband, without Heaven's leave. — 

 "She took it first" (old Adam's lame excuse.) 

 I would not offer for your modern use. 

 "The Devil gave me. and so I did eat" 

 (Eve's foolish reason.) why should I repeat? 

 Not such theology to you I bring. 

 Nor. from old legends, lift my songward wing. 

 Not these I sing. 



I sing of orchards on the hills of Maine, 

 Bearing, each year, their golden balls again: 

 Of crimson fruit, that August breezes fan. 

 The blushing Baldwin, and the Astrachan. 

 The purple grapes, that twine on sunny slopes ; 

 The golden pumpkins ; and the canteloupes — 



I sing the Summer Sweeting, none so good — 

 Delicious memories of my maidenhood — 

 I shake the tree. and. on my head, comes down. 

 A shower of apples. — From the grasses brown. 



