Classic Poem

As orchard apples, so should friendship yield:
Simply,—first bud, then blossom; after which
Long trusting, while slow suns mature the rich
And perfect clusters. Late, while path-crossed field,
And streams, and all the orchard ways are sealed
With Winter's signet, and up-chimney pitch
The fire's great arms,—then is, in ingle-niche,
The gathered fruit, wine-ripe and sound, revealed!