Green Things Groning The years shall come and pass, but we And time shall waste this apple tree. What shall the tasks of mercy be, "Who planted this old apple tree?" 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; WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. An Apple Orchard in the Spring Green Things Have you seen an apple orchard in the spring? Growing 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 odors in the spring? 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 cuckoo bird soft calling, In the spring. If you have not, then you know not, in the spring, Half the color, beauty, wonder of the spring, Green Things Growing No sweet sight can I remember In the spring. WILLIAM MARTIN. Mine Host of "The Golden Apple A goodly host one day was mine, That hung from a long branch, ripe and fine. My host was the bountiful apple-tree; And light-winged guests came not a few, I slept at night on a downy bed When I asked what reckoning there might be, THOMAS WESTWOOD. The Tree I love thee when thy swelling buds appear, And round thee lies the smooth, untrodden snow, Green Things Growing JONES VERY. A Young Fir-Wood These little firs to-day are things Shall cherish them in strength and sap, Green Things Growing All seed is in the sower's hands: And what at first was trained to spread Upon the earth and elder sands. DANTE G. ROSSETTI. The Snowing of the Pines Softer than silence, stiller than still air Float down from high pine-boughs the slender leaves. The forest floor its annual boon receives That comes like snowfall, tireless, tranquil, fair. Or those strange blossoms the witch-hazels wear. High up, the crows are gathering for the night; Takes through their golden mist his radiant They fall and fall, till at November's close |