Classic Poem

My porch stands high,
And between the floor and the roof the apple-tree
Shoots in its green branches.
The blossoms are gone,
But silver sunlight dapples the leaves,
And little apples are rounding in the shadows.
Below me in the garden
Young shoots make green lines in the tawny soil.
Little peach-trees border it,
With three dark pines behind them.
And beyond, blue and green through the new-washed air,
Curves upward the crest of a hill
Against the pale blue sky.

So sweet, so still—
Hardly a breeze is blowing
To rustle the shining leaves.
At peace is the round green world—
At peace.