THE APPLE-TREES AT EVEN

Ah! long ago it seems to me,

Those sweet old days of summer,

When I was young and fair was she,

And sorrow only rumor.

And all the world was less than naught

To me who had her favor;

For Time and Care had not then taught

How Life of Death hath savor.

And all the day the roving bees

Clung to the swinging clover,

And robins in the apple-trees

Answered the faint-voiced plover.

And all the sounds were low and sweet;

The zephyrs left off roaming

In curving gambols o'er the wheat,

To kiss her in the gloaming.

The apple-blossoms kissed her hair,

The daisies prayed her wreathe them;

Ah, me! the blossoms still are there,

But she lies deep beneath them.

I now have turned my thoughts to God,

Earth from my heart I sever;

With fast and prayer I onward plod —

With prayer and fast forever.

Yet, when the white-robed priest speaks low

And bids me think of Heaven,

I always hear the breezes blow

The apple-trees at even.