I knew the moon swam in the sky, And the earth swam in the moon; I went outside in the grass to lie, To yield to the deadly swoon.
My soul was filled with white moon rain Till it ran o’er and o’er, My soul was thrilled with bright moon pain Till it could bear no more; I stole back through the curtained gloom Up stairs unlit and steep, And in a low-ceiled darkened room My hurt was healed with sleep.
The old man and his apple-tree Are verging close on eighty-three; ’Twas planted there when he was two, And almost side by side they grew. How strong and straight they were at eight, One leafy, one with curly pate. How fine at twenty, how alive And prosperous at twenty-five. What health and grace in every limb, Was said of it--was said of him.
Then when he blushed, a marriage groom, The tree outvied the bride in bloom; And in the after years there played Within its ample sweep of shade A little child, with cheeks as red As had the apples overhead. Her father called the tree his twin, And surely it was next of kin.
The best of life came to the twain, The beauty of the stars, the rain, Soft stepping, and the liquid notes That overflow from feathered throats. Unto the soul that selfish strives Was borne the fragrance of their lives, And anxious folk with brow down bent Bathed in their dewy cool content. They held their heads up in the storm, And gloried when the winds were warm; Their shadows lay but at their feet, And all of life above was sweet.
And now that they are eighty-three They’re almost as they used to be. The blossoms are as pink and white, The old man’s heart as pure and light. The apples--fragrant balls of flame-- Are looking, tasting, just the same. And just the same his uttered thought Of mirth and wisdom quaintly wrought. Through all their years they kept their truth, Their strength, and that sweet look of youth.
The fires of Autumn are burning high; Bright the trees in the woods are blazing-- A wall of flame from the brilliant sky Down to the fields where the cattle are grazing. O the warm, warm end of the year! Even the shrubs their red hearts render; All the bushes are bright with cheer And the tamest vine has a touch of splendor.
The fires of Autumn are burning low; Blow, ye winds, and cease not blowing! Blow the flames to a ruddier show, Heap the coals to a hotter glowing. Ah, the chill, chill end of the year! Naught is left but a few leaf flashes; White is the death stone, white and drear, Over a desolate world of ashes.