Glinting golden through the trees,
           Apples of Hesperides!
          Through the moon-pierced warp of night
          Shoot pale shafts of yellow light,
          Swaying to the kissing breeze
          Swings the treasure, golden-gleaming,
           Apples of Hesperides!

          Far and lofty yet they glimmer,
           Apples of Hesperides!
          Blinded by their radiant shimmer,
          Pushing forward just for these;
          Dew-besprinkled, bramble-marred,
          Poor duped mortal, travel-scarred,
          Always thinking soon to seize
          And possess the golden-glistening
           Apples of Hesperides!

          Orbed, and glittering, and pendent,
           Apples of Hesperides!
          Not one missing, still transcendent,
          Clustering like a swarm of bees.
          Yielding to no man's desire,
          Glowing with a saffron fire,
          Splendid, unassailed, the golden
           Apples of Hesperides!

          April had covered the hills
           With flickering yellows and reds,
          The sparkle and coolness of snow
           Was blown from the mountain beds.

          Across a deep-sunken stream
           The pink of blossoming trees,
          And from windless appleblooms
           The humming of many bees.

          The air was of rose and gold
           Arabesqued with the song of birds
          Who, swinging unseen under leaves,
           Made music more eager than words.

          Of a sudden, aslant the road,
           A brightness to dazzle and stun,
          A glint of the bluest blue,
           A flash from a sapphire sun.

          Blue-birds so blue, 't was a dream,
           An impossible, unconceived hue,
          The high sky of summer dropped down
           Some rapturous ocean to woo.

          Such a colour, such infinite light!
           The heart of a fabulous gem,
          Many-faceted, brilliant and rare.
           Centre Stone of the earth's diadem!
               .    .    .    .    .
          Centre Stone of the Crown of the World,
           "Sincerity" graved on your youth!
          And your eyes hold the blue-bird flash,
           The sapphire shaft, which is truth.

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 mould 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 grass   
Betrays their bed to those who pass,    
  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 pass, 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 little 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;   
'T is said he made some quaint old rhymes
  On planting the apple-tree."

Again the glory of the days!

    Once more the dreamy sunshine fills

    Noon after noon,—and all the hills

Lie soft and dim in autumn haze.

And lovely lie these meadows low

    In the slant sun—and quiet broods

    Above the splendor of the woods

All touched with autumn’s tenderest glow.

The trees stand marshalled, clan by clan,

    A bannered army, far and near—

    (Mark how yon fiery maples rear

Their crimson colors in the van!)

Methinks, these ancient haunts among,

    A fuller life informs the fall—

    The crows in council sit and call,

The quail through stubble leads her young.

The woodcocks whirrs by bush and brake,

    The partridge plies his cedar-search—

    (Old Andy says the trout and perch

Are larger now, in stream and lake.)

O’re the brown leaves, the forest floor,

    With nut and acorn scantly strewed,

    The small red people of the wood

Are out to seek their winter store.

To-day they gather, each and all,

    To take their last of autumn suns—

    E’en the gray squirrel lithely runs

Along the mossy pasture wall.

By marsh and brook, by copse and hill,

    To their old quiet haunts repair

    The feeble things of earth and air,

And feed and flutter at their will.

the feet that roved this woodland round,

    The hands that scared the timid race,

    Now middle in a mightier chase,

Or mould on that great Hunting-Ground

Strange calm and peace!—ah, who could deem,

    By this still glen, this lone hill-side,

    How three long summers, in their pride,

Have smiled above that awful Dream?—

Have ever woven a braver green,

    And ever arched a lovelier blue

    Yet nature, in her every hue,

Took color from the dread Unseen.

The haze of Indian Summer seemed

    Borne from far fields of sulphury breath—

    A subtile atmosphere of death

Was ever round us as we dreamed.

The horizon’s dim heat-lightning played

    Like small-arms, still, through nights of drouht,

    And the low thunder of the south

Was dull and distant cannonade.

To us the glory of the gray

    Had still a stranger, stormier dye,

    Remember how we watched the sky

Of many a waning battle day,

O’er many a field of lass or fame—

    How Shiloh’s eve to ashes turned,

    And how Manassas’ sunset burned

Incarnadine of blood and flame.

And how, in thunder, day by day,

    The hot sky hanging over all,

    Beneath that sullen, lurid pall,

The Week of Battles rolled away!

Give me my legions!—so, in grief,

    Like him of Rome, our Father cried—

    (A Nation’s Flower lay down and died

In yon fell shade!)—ah, hapless chief—

Too late we learned thy star!—o’erta’en,

    (Of error or of fate o’erharsh,)

    Like Varus, in the fatal marsh

Where skill and valor all were vain!

All vain—Fair Oaks and Seven Pines!

   A deeper hue than dying Fall

    May lend, is yours!——yet over all

The mild Virginian autumn shines.

And still a Nation’s Heart o’erhung

    The iron echoes pealed afar,

    Along a thousand leagues of war

The battle thunders tossed and flung.

Till, when our fortunes paled the most,

    And Hope had half forgot to wave,

    Her banner o’er the wearied brave—

A morning saw the traitor host

Rolled back o’er red Potomac’s wave,

    And the Great River burst his way!—

    And all on that dear Summer’s Day

Day that our fathers died and gave.

Rest in thy calm, Eternal Right!

    For thee, though levin-scarred and torn,

    Through flame and death shall still be borne

The Red, the Azure, and the White.

We pass—we sink like summer’s snow—

    Yet on the might Cause shall move,

    Though every field a Cannæ prove,

And every pass a Roncesvaux.

Though every summer burn anew

    A battle-summer—though each day

    We bane a new Aceldama,

Or some dry Golgotha re-dew.

And thou, in lonely dream withdrawn!

    What dost thou, while in tempest dies

    The long drear Night, and all the skies

Are red with Freedom’s fiery Dawn!

Behold, thy summer days are o’er—

    Yet dearer, lovelier these that fall

    Wrapped in red autumn’s flag, than all

The green and glory gone before.

’Twas well to sing by stream and sod,

    And they there were that loved thy lays—

    But lo, where, ’neath yon battle-haze,

Thy brothers bare the breast of God!

Reck not of waning force nor breath—

    Some little aid may yet be thine,

    Some honor to the All-Divine,—

To-day, where, by yon River of Death,

His stars on Rosecrans look down—

    Or, on the morrow, by moat and wall,

    Once more when the Great Admiral

Thunder on traitor fleet and town.

O wearied heart! O darkening eye!

    (How long to hope and trust untrue!)

    What in the hurly can ye do?

Little, ’tis like—yet we can die.

In the dreamy silence
Of the afternoon, a
Cloth of gold is woven
Over wood and prairie;
And the jaybird, newly
Fallen from the heaven,
Scatters cordial greetings,
And the air is filled with
Scarlet leaves, that, dropping,
Rise again, as ever,
With a useless sigh for
Rest—and it is Autumn.

Citron, pomegranate,
     Apricot, and peach,
  Flutter of apple-blows
     Whiter than the snow,
  Filling the silence
     With their leafy speech,
  Budding and blooming
     Down row after row.

Breaths of blown spices,
     Which the meadows yield,
  Blossoms broad-petaled,
     Starry buds and small;
  Gold of the hill-sides,
     Purple of the field,
  Waft to my nostrils
     Their fragrance, one and all.

Birds in the tree-tops,
     Birds that fill the air,
  Trilling, piping, singing,
     In their merry moods, —
  Gold wing and brown wing,
     Flitting here and here,
  To the coo and chirrup
     Of their downy broods.

What grace has summer
     Better that can suit?
  What gift can autumn
     Bring us more to please?
  Red of blown roses,
     Mellow tints of fruit,
  Never can be fairer,
     Sweeter than are these.

You promised to send me some violets. Did you forget?   
  White ones and blue ones from under the orchard hedge?   
  Sweet dark purple, and white ones mixed for a pledge   
Of our early love that hardly has opened yet.   
   
Here there’s an almond tree—you have never seen         
  Such a one in the north—it flowers on the street, and I stand   
  Every day by the fence to look up for the flowers that expand   
At rest in the blue, and wonder at what they mean.   
   
Under the almond tree, the happy lands   
  Provence, Japan, and Italy repose,   
  And passing feet are chatter and clapping of those   
Who play around us, country girls clapping their hands.   
   
You, my love, the foremost, in a flowered gown,   
  All your unbearable tenderness, you with the laughter   
  Startled upon your eyes now so wide with hereafter,    
You with loose hands of abandonment hanging down.