Classic Poem

You've heard, I think, of the beautiful maid
Who fled from Love's caresses,
Till her beautiful toes were turned to roots,
And both her shoulders to beautiful shoots,
And her beautiful cheeks to beautiful fruits,
And to blossoming spray her tresses!

I've seen her, man! she's living yet
Up in a Cherokee valley!
She's an apple tree! and her name might be,
In the softly musical Cherokee,
A long-drawn “Nantahalee!”
'Tis as sweet a word as you'll read or write;
Not quite as fair as the thing, yet quite
Sufficient to start an old anchorite
Out of his ashes to bless and bite
The beautiful “Nantahalee!”