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 sprigs of bloom,
We plant with the apple tree.
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The Blossoms and leaves in plenty
From the apple tree fall each day;
The merry breezes approach read more
The Blossoms and leaves in plenty
From the apple tree fall each day;
The merry breezes approach them,
And with them merrily play.
Art thou the topmost apple
The gathers could reach,
Reddening on the bough?
Shall read more
Art thou the topmost apple
The gathers could reach,
Reddening on the bough?
Shall I not take thee?
Oh! happy are the apples when the south winds blow.
Oh! happy are the apples when the south winds blow.
After the conquest of Afric, Greece, the lesser Asia, and Syria
were brought into Italy all the sorts of read more
After the conquest of Afric, Greece, the lesser Asia, and Syria
were brought into Italy all the sorts of their Mala, which we
interprete apples, and might signify no more at first; but were
afterwards applied to many other foreign fruits.
Like Dead Sea fruit that tempts the eye,
But turns to ashes on the lips!
Like Dead Sea fruit that tempts the eye,
But turns to ashes on the lips!
There's plenty of boys that will come hankering and gruvvelling
around when you've got an apple, and beg the read more
There's plenty of boys that will come hankering and gruvvelling
around when you've got an apple, and beg the core off you; but
when they're got one, and you beg for the core, and remind them
how you give them a core one time, they take a mouth at you, and
say thank you 'most to death, but there ain't a-going to be no
core.
Like the sweet apple which reddens upon the topmost bough,
A-top on the topmost twig--which the pluckers forgot, somehow--
read more
Like the sweet apple which reddens upon the topmost bough,
A-top on the topmost twig--which the pluckers forgot, somehow--
Forgot it not, nay, but got it not, for none could get it till
now.
And what is more melancholy than the old apple-trees that linger
about the spot where once stood a homestead, read more
And what is more melancholy than the old apple-trees that linger
about the spot where once stood a homestead, but where there is
now only a ruined chimney rising our of a grassy and weed-grown
cellar? They offer their fruit to every wayfarer--apples that
are bitter-sweet with the moral of times vicissitude.
Like to the apples on the Dead Sea's shore,
All ashes to the taste.
Like to the apples on the Dead Sea's shore,
All ashes to the taste.
