What plant we in this apple-tree? Buds, which the breath 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, 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. What plant we in this apple-tree? While children come, with cries of glee, And when, above this apple-tree, And guests in prouder homes shall see, The fruit of the apple-tree. 1 E The Planting of the Apple-Tree 1369 The fruitage of this apple-tree Each year shall give this apple-tree And time shall waste this apple-tree. What shall the tasks of mercy be, Amid the toils, the strifes, the tears "Who planted this old apple-tree?" The children of that distant day Thus to some agèd 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 [1794-1878] OF AN ORCHARD GOOD is an Orchard, the Saint saith, Good is an Orchard: very good, Though one should wear no monkish hood. Right good, when Spring awakes her flute, And good in yellowing time of fruit. Very good in the grass to lie The bees are types of souls that dwell Prayer and praise in a country home, Katherine Tynan [1861– AN ORCHARD AT AVIGNON THE hills are white, but not with snow: Within the circle of the hills A ring, all flowering in a round, The Tide River More fair than happier trees, I think, O white, austere, ideal place, Where very few will care to come, Fain would I sit and watch for hours A place of secret peace thou art, Such peace as in an hour of pain. One moment fills the amazed heart, And never comes again. A. Mary F. Robinson [1857 1371 THE TIDE RIVER From "The Water Babies" CLEAR and cool, clear and cool, By shining shingle and foaming weir; And the ivied wall where the church-bell rings, Play by me, bathe in me, mother and child. Dank and foul, dank and foul, By the smoky town in its murky cowl; By wharf and sewer and slimy bank; Who dare sport with the sin-defiled? Shrink from me, turn from me, mother and child. Strong and free, strong and free, Like a soul that has sinned and is pardoned again, Play by me, bathe in me, mother and child. Charles Kingsley [1819-1875] THE BROOK'S SONG From "The Brook " I COME from haunts of coot and hern, And sparkle out among the fern, By thirty hills I hurry down, Till last by Philip's farm I flow For men may come and men may go, I chatter over stony ways, With many a curve my banks I fret With willow-weed and mallow. |