Classic Poem

In my garden grows a tree
Of apple-blossom, where for me
A blackbird perches every day,
Sings his song and flies away.
So since fairies make for birds
Music out of fairy words,
I have learned from it a rhyme
For folk to sing at apple-time,
Which (if you live where apples grow)
You'll find a useful thing to know.

Apples ripe and apples red,
Grow they high above my head.
Alack-a-day! for I am small
And apple-trees are mostly tall;
Dreary me! But what is sadder,
Nobody can find a ladder.
Call a pixy, green or brown,
And bid him throw the apples down.
Pixy, throw them down as quick
Or quicker than my hands could pick!
One, two, three and now another
Each one bigger than the other.
Pixies green and pixies brown,
Throw the big red apples down.