THE PLANTING OF THE APPLE TREE. 



Come, let us plant the Apple-tree. 

 Cleave the tough greensward with the 



spade ; 

 Wide let its hollow bed be made; 

 There gently lay the roots, and there 

 Sift the dark mould with jkindly care, 



And press it o'er them tenderly, 

 As, round the sleeping infant's feet, 

 We softly fold the cradle-sheet ; 



So plant we the Apple-tree. 



What plant we in this Apple-tree? 

 Buds, which breathe of summer days 

 Shall lengthen into leafy sprays; 

 Boughs where the thrush, with crimson 



breast, 

 Shall haunt and sing and hide her nest ; 



We plant, upon the sunny lea, 

 A shadow for the noontide hour, 

 A shelter from the summer shower, 



When we plant the Apple-tree. 



What plant we in this Apple-tree ? 

 Sweets for a hundred flowery springs 

 To load the May-wind's restless wings. 

 When, from the orchard-row, he pours 

 Its fragrance through our open doors ; 



A world of blossoms for the bee. 

 Flowers for the sick girl's silent room. 

 For the glad infant springs of bloom. 



We plant with the Apple-tree. 



What plant we in this Apple-tree? 

 Fruits that shall swell in sunny June, 

 And redden in the August noon, 

 And drop, when gentle airs come by. 

 That fan the blue September sky, 



While children come, with cries of 

 glee. 

 And seek them where the fragrant grass 

 Betrays their bed to those who pass. 



At the foot of the Apple-tree. 



And when, above this Apple-tree, 

 The winter stars are quivering bright. 

 And winds go howling through the night. 

 Girls, whose young eyes o'erflow with 

 mirth. 



Shall peel its fruit by cottage-hearth. 



And guests in prouder homes shall see, 

 Heaped with the grape of Cintra's vine 

 And golden orange of the line. 

 The fruit of the Apple-tree. 



The fruitage of this Apple-tree 

 Winds and our flag of stripe and star 

 Shall bear to coasts that lie afar. 

 Where men shall wonder at the view. 

 And ask in what fair groves they grew; 



And sojourners beyond the sea 

 Shall think of childhood's careless day. 

 And long, long hours of summer play. 



In the shade of the Apple-tree. 



Each year shall give this Apple-tree 

 A broader flush of roseate bloom, 

 A deeper maze of verdurous gloom, 

 And loosen, when the frost-clouds lower. 

 The crisp brown leaves in thicker shower. 



The years shall come and pass, but we 

 Shall hear no longer, where we lie, 

 The summer's songs, the autumn's sigh, 



In the boughs of the Apple-tree. 



And time shall waste this Apple-tree. 

 Oh, when its aged branches throw 

 Thin shadows on the ground below. 

 Shall fraud and force and iron will 

 Oppress the weak and helpless still ? 



What shall the tasks of mercy be, 

 Amid the toils, the strifes, the tears 

 Of those who live when length of years 



Is wasting this little Apple-tree? 



"Who planted this old Apple-tree?" 

 The children of that distant day 

 Thus to some aged man shall say ; 

 And, gazing on its mossy stem. 

 The gray-haired man shall answer them : 



"A poet of the land was he. 

 Born in the rude but good old times ; 

 'Tis said he made some quaint old 

 rhymes, 



On planting the Apple-tree." 



— William Cullen Bryant. 



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