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Apple Tree Poems

Table of Contents

  1. An Apple Orchard in the Spring by William Martin
  2. The Old Apple-Tree by Laurence Dunbar
  3. The Little Red Apple Tree by James Whitcomb Riley
  4. Apple-Blossom by Mathilde Blind
  5. Apple-Blossom Town by Hilda Conkling
  6. Apple-Trees by Jessie Belle Rittenhouse
  7. An Apple Gathering by Christina Rossetti
  8. Leaves by Hilda Conkling

  1. An Apple Orchard in the Spring

    by William Martin

    Have you seen an apple orchard in the spring?
    In the spring?
    An English apple orchard in the spring?
    When the spreading trees are hoary
    With their wealth of promised glory,
    And the mavis sings its story,
    In the spring.

    Have you plucked the apple blossoms in the spring?
    In the spring?
    And caught their subtle odours in the spring?
    Pink buds pouting at the light,
    Crumpled petals baby white
    Just to touch them a delight—
    In the spring.

    Have you walked beneath the blossoms in the spring?
    In the spring?
    Beneath the apple blossoms in the spring?
    When the pink cascades are falling,
    And the silver brooklets brawling,
    And the cuckoo bird soft calling,
    In the spring.

    If you have not, then you know not, in the spring,
    In the spring,
    Half the colour, beauty, wonder of the spring,
    No sweet sight can I remember
    Half so precious, half so tender,
    As the apple blossoms render,
    In the spring.

  2. The Old Apple-Tree

    by Paul Laurence Dunbar

    There's a memory keeps a-runnin'
    Through my weary head to-night,
    An' I see a picture dancin'
    In the fire-flames' ruddy-light;
    'Tis the picture of an orchard
    Wrapped in autumn's purple haze,
    With the tender light about it
    That I loved in other days.
    An' a-standin' in a corner
    Once again I seem to see
    The verdant leaves an' branches
    Of an old apple-tree.

    You perhaps would call it ugly,
    An' I don't know but it's so,
    When you look the tree all over
    Unadorned by memory's glow;
    For its boughs are gnarled an' crooked,
    An' its leaves are gettin' thin,
    An' the apples of its bearin'
    Wouldn't fill so large a bin
    As they used to. But I tell you,
    When it comes to pleasin' me,
    It's the dearest in the orchard, —
    Is that old apple-tree.

    I would hide within its shelter,
    Settlin' in some cosy nook,
    Where no calls nor threats could stir me
    From the pages o' my book.
    Oh, that quiet, sweet seclusion
    In its fulness passeth words!
    It was deeper than the deepest
    That my sanctum now affords.
    Why, the jaybirds an' the robins,
    They was hand in glove with me,
    As they winked at me 'an warbled
    In that old apple-tree.

    It was on its sturdy branches
    That in summers long ago
    I would tie my swing an' dangle
    In contentment to an' fro,
    Idly dreaming' childish fancies,
    Buildin' castles in the air,
    Makin' o' myself a hero
    Of romances rich an' rare.
    I kin shet my eyes an' see it
    Jest as plain as plain kin be,
    That same old swing a-danglin'
    To the old apple-tree.

    There's a rustic seat beneath it
    That I never kin forget.
    It's the place where me an' Hallie —
    Little sweetheart — used to set,
    When we'd wander to the orchard
    So's no listenin' ones could hear
    As I whispered sugared nonsense
    Into her little willin' ear.
    Now my gray old wife is Hallie,
    An' I'm grayer still than she,
    But I'll not forget our courtin'
    'Neath the old apple-tree,

    Life for us ain't all been summer,
    But I guess we've had our share
    Of its flittin' joys an' pleasures,
    An' a sprinklin' of its care.
    Oft the skies have smiled upon us;
    Then again we've seen 'em frown,
    Though our load was ne'er so heavy
    That we longed to lay it down.
    But when death does come a-callin',
    This my last request shall be, —
    That they'll bury me an' Hallie
    'Neath the old apple-tree.

    Fact: Apple trees are members of the rose family (Rosaceae).


  3. The Little Red Apple Tree

    by James Whitcomb Riley

    The Little-red-apple Tree!—
    O the Little-red-apple Tree!
    When I was the little-est bit of a boy
    And you were a boy with me!
    The bluebird's flight from the topmost boughs,
    And the boys up there—so high
    That we rocked over the roof of the house
    And whooped as the winds went by!

    Hey! The Little-red-apple Tree!
    With the garden-beds below,
    And the old grape-arbor so welcomely
    Hiding the rake and hoe!
    Hiding, too, as the sun dripped through
    In spatters of wasted gold,
    Frank and Amy away from you
    And me in the days of old!

    The Little-red-apple Tree!—
    In the edge of the garden-spot,
    Where the apples fell so lavishly
    Into the neighbor's lot;—
    So do I think of you alway,
    Brother of mine, as the tree,—
    Giving the ripest wealth of your love
    To the world as well as me.

    Ho! The Little-red-apple Tree!
    Sweet as its juiciest fruit
    Spanged on the palate spicily,
    And rolled o'er the tongue to boot,
    Is the memory still and the joy
    Of the Little-red-apple Tree,
    When I was the little-est bit of a boy
    And you were a boy with me!

  4. Apple-Blossom

    by Mathilde Blind

    Blossom of the apple trees!
    Mossy trunks all gnarled and hoary,
    Grey boughs tipped with rose-veined glory,
    Clustered petals soft as fleece
    Garlanding old apple trees!

    How you gleam at break of day!
    When the coy sun, glancing rarely,
    Pouts and sparkles in the pearly
    Pendulous dewdrops, twinkling gay
    On each dancing leaf and spray.

    Through your latticed boughs on high,
    Framed in rosy wreaths, one catches
    Brief kaleidoscopic snatches
    Of deep lapis-lazuli
    In the April-coloured sky.

    When the sundown's dying brand
    Leaves your beauty to the tender
    Magic spells of moonlight splendour,
    Glimmering clouds of bloom you stand,
    Turning earth to fairyland.

    Cease, wild winds, O, cease to blow!
    Apple-blossom, fluttering, flying,
    Palely on the green turf lying,
    Vanishing like winter snow;
    Swift as joy to come and go.

  5. Apple-Blossom Town

    by Hilda Conkling

    I know an orchard . . .
    Apple-blossom Town!
    Bees live in the next village.
    Pink and fluffy houses in the trees
    Are for rent.
    My thoughts tell me who will come . . .
    These are trees that blossom with bees and birds.
    Here is a town with just enough air, just enough sun;
    Love enough, happiness enough.

  6. Apple-Trees

    by Jessie Belle Rittenhouse

    My childhood held a fairy sight—
    A thousand apple-trees,
    All pink and white for my delight
    And humming with the bees.

    They grew upon a green hillside,
    They sweetened all the air,
    They spread a tent of blossoms wide
    For my pavilion there.

    I broke the branches at my will,
    There was so vast a store;
    From out my arms the sprays would spill,
    But there were always more.

    *****

    Now I go out from city ways
    To see the apple-tree,
    For if I miss her flowering days
    The year goes ill with me.

  7. An Apple Gathering

    by Christina Rossetti

    I plucked pink blossoms from mine apple-tree,
    And wore them all that evening in my hair:
    Then in due season when I went to see
    I found no apples there.

    With dangling basket all along the grass
    As I had come I went the selfsame track:
    My neighbors mocked me while they saw me pass
    So empty-handed back.

    Lilian and Lilias smiled in trudging by,
    Their heaped-up basket teased me like a jeer;
    Sweet-voiced they sang beneath the sunset sky,
    Their mother's home was near.

    Plump Gertrude passed me with her basket full,
    A stronger hand than hers helped it along;
    A voice talked with her through the shadows cool
    More sweet to me than song.

    Ah, Willie, Willie, was my love less worth
    Than apples with their green leaves piled above?
    I counted rosiest apples on the earth
    Of far less worth than love.

    So once it was with me you stooped to talk
    Laughing and listening in this very lane:
    To think that by this way we used to walk
    We shall not walk again!

    I let my neighbors pass me, ones and twos
    And groups; the latest said the night grew chill,
    And hastened: but I loitered, while the dews
    Fell fast I loitered still.

  8. Leaves

    by Hilda Conkling

    In my apple-orchard
    In the oldest tree
    Fall has hidden gold leaves.
    I looked into the hollow
    And saw no apples,
    Only leaves with frost on them
    Like marble tilings,
    Like jeweled tables . . .
    Yet there was no gold . . . no marble . . .
    Only leaves covered with frost
    That sparkled the way my thought told me.

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