A song for the brave old apple-tree,
Sturdy and hardy, a strong athlete,
Giving a challenge to hail and sleet,
His gray-green coat flung off at his feet,
And his stiff limbs set defiantly!
When frosts would nip him, and west winds whip him,
And rain, conspiring with these, would strip him,
In the stubborn pride of his rugged hide
Their wrath he has utterly defied;
The more they raged the more he kissed,
Each knot laid bare was a doubled fist,
And his naked limbs could better resist
The wrestling blasts sent down to trip him!
He is strong and fair though they leave him bare
Of leaf, as Eden’s sinless pair;
Despite the rigor of adverse fate,
His beauty and vigor survive the hate
Of his deadliest foe: ah, ye who may doubt,
Come study my peasant-lord of trees,
The gnarl of his knuckles and twist of his knees,
His arms akimbo and elbows out,
Thrusting at whatso comes his way
More limbs than ever Briareus stout
Was armed withal in his palmiest day: –
Behold the mosses, yellow and gray
That mottle his old trunk round about,
And the dimple-pits of his russet skin,
Those curious spirals dotted in
By the blithe woodpecker delving there
For his winter fare; –
And hten confess that his comeliness,
Though quite transfigured, is none the less
For his homespun suit of dull “undress.”
A strain for my gallant in garments made
By vernal sprites for his dress parade!
Plumed with the lithest greening spray,
The love-gift of his lady May,
And wearing for this gala day
Over all his breast a bonny bouquet
In the glory of pink and pearl displayed
Ah, now it is he is wholly gay!
His knots and gnarls are hidden away
In a scented cloud of blooms that crowd
All over his tangled head, between
The fluttering plumes of tenderest green;
And every bloom has a bee that swings
In that dainty cradle, rocked by wings
Of invisible fairies hovering there;
And every bee to the blossom hums
A murmuring monody that comes
To the listening ear from everywhere,
Mixed with the odor that fills the air, –
Two dizzying sweets whose mingling seems
The genesis of nepenthe dreams;
You would think the sun had warmed the sap
In the icy veins of my gray old chap,
Till his head was a-whirl with the bee in his cap!
A stave for the brave in his autumn suit;
Dusty and dull from the burning sun,
And wafts, from the withered fields, that run;
Yet out of the dusk of his foldings dun
How gleam the globes of his peerless fruit,
A priceless boon, a beautiful boon,
The jewel of Autumn’s golden noon;
Only the dream of it makes him laugh
Into flowers, that are winnowed off like chaff
In the warmer air of the mid-May moon;
Aye, while the flocks of the feathered snow
On white wings hovering, silent, slow,
Came down to alight on his naked breast,
In his old heart quivered a sweet unrest,
The prescience of his own bloom shower,
And this crowning wealth of his leafy bower.
Then a song for the brave old apple-tree,
For his lavish bounty and gallant show,
And his tough old fibres that tougher grow
In the storm’s insult and the smothering snow!
Ah, well for our hearts were they brave as he!
The Old Apple Tree