I stood tiptoe upon a little hill; The air was cooling and so very still, That the sweet buds which with a modest pride Pull droopingly, in slanting curve aside, Their scanty-leaved, and finely-tapering stems, Had not yet lost their starry diadems Caught from the early sobbing of the morn.

The clouds were pure and white as flocks new-shorn, And fresh from the clear brook; sweetly they slept On the blue fields of heaven, and then there crept A little noiseless noise among the leaves, Born of the very sigh that silence heaves; For not the faintest motion could be seen Of all the shades that slanted o'er the green.

JOHN KEATS.

_Under the Greenwood Tree_

Under the greenwood tree, Who loves to lie with me, And tune his merry note Unto the sweet bird's throat, Come hither, come hither, come hither!

Here shall he see No enemy But winter and rough weather.

Who doth ambition shun, And loves to live i' the sun, Seeking the food he eats, And pleased with what he gets, Come hither, come hither, come hither!

Here shall he see No enemy But winter and rough weather.

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.

_From "As You Like It."_

_The Planting of the Apple Tree_[6]

Come, let us plant the apple tree.

Cleave the tough greensward with the spade; Wide let its hollow bed be made; There gently lay the roots, and there Sift the dark mold with kindly care, And press it o'er them tenderly, As, round the sleeping infant's feet We softly fold the cradle sheet; So plant we the apple tree.

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, A shelter from the summer shower, When we plant the apple tree.

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?

Fruits that shall swell in sunny June, And redden in the August noon, And drop, when gentle airs come by, That fan the blue September sky, While children come, with cries of glee, And seek them where the fragrant gra.s.s Betrays their bed to those who pa.s.s, At the foot of the apple tree.

And when, above this apple tree, The winter stars are quivering bright, And winds go howling through the night, Girls, whose young eyes o'erflow with mirth, Shall peel its fruit by cottage hearth, And guests in prouder homes shall see, Heaped with the grape of Cintra's vine And golden orange of the line, The fruit of the apple tree.

The fruitage of this apple tree Winds, and our flag of stripe and star, Shall bear to coasts that lie afar, Where men shall wonder at the view, And ask in what fair groves they grew; And sojourners beyond the sea Shall think of childhood's careless day And long, long hours of summer play, In the shade of the apple tree.

Each year shall give this apple tree A broader flush of roseate bloom, A deeper maze of verdurous gloom, And loosen, when the frost clouds lower, The crisp brown leaves in thicker shower.

The years shall come and pa.s.s, but we Shall hear no longer, where we lie, The summer's songs, the autumn's sigh, In the boughs of the apple tree.

And time shall waste this apple tree.

Oh, when its aged branches throw Thin shadows on the ground below, Shall fraud and force and iron will Oppress the weak and helpless still?

What shall the tasks of mercy be, Amid the toils, the strifes, the tears, Of those who live when length of years Is wasting this apple tree?

"Who planted this old apple tree?"

The children of that distant day Thus to some aged 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.

[Footnote 6: _By courtesy of D. Appleton & Co., publishers of Bryant's Complete Poetical Works._]

_An Apple Orchard in the Spring_

Have you seen an apple orchard in the spring?

In the spring?

An English apple orchard in the spring?

When the spreading trees are h.o.a.ry 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?

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 color, 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.

WILLIAM MARTIN.

_Mine Host of "The Golden Apple"_

A goodly host one day was mine, A Golden Apple his only sign, That hung from a long branch, ripe and fine.

My host was the bountiful apple-tree; He gave me shelter and nourished me With the best of fare, all fresh and free.

And light-winged guests came not a few, To his leafy inn, and sipped the dew, And sang their best songs ere they flew.

I slept at night on a downy bed Of moss, and my Host benignly spread His own cool shadow over my head.

When I asked what reckoning there might be, He shook his broad boughs cheerily:-- A blessing be thine, green Apple-tree!

THOMAS WESTWOOD.

_The Tree_

I love thee when thy swelling buds appear, And one by one their tender leaves unfold, As if they knew that warmer suns were near, Nor longer sought to hide from winter's cold; And when with darker growth thy leaves are seen To veil from view the early robin's nest, I love to lie beneath thy waving screen, With limbs by summer's heat and toil oppressed; And when the autumn winds have stripped thee bare, And round thee lies the smooth, untrodden snow, When naught is thine that made thee once so fair, I love to watch thy shadowy form below, And through thy leafless arms to look above On stars that brighter beam when most we need their love.

JONES VERY.

_A Young Fir-Wood_

These little firs to-day are things To clasp into a giant's cap, Or fans to suit his lady's lap.