Classic Poem

Tallest of all the orchard trees,
Its boughs the greensward meeting,
Shading with greenest of canopies
The meadow bars, and the stand of bees,
It stood, with an air of sturdy ease,
As if it had waved for centuries,
Bounteous queen of the fruitful leas;
And the apples it swung in the sun and breeze
Might rival the fair Hesperides',—
The dear old high-top sweeting!

Lovely it was when its blossoms came
To answer the bluebird's greeting;
They were dainty and white as a maiden's fame,
And pink as the flush of tender shame
That lights her cheek at her lover's name;
And the place was bright with the rosy flame
Of the beautiful high-top sweeting.
Smiling up to the smiling day,
A marvel of bloom and sweetness,
Just one bountiful, vast bouquet,
The pride and glory of later May,
No brush could paint it, no pen portray
Its perfect and rare completeness,

When down in the cedar-swamp, the crow
Cawed to his croaking neighbor,
And, scoring the furrows to and fro,
With the heavy oxen, strong and slow,
Where later the ribboned corn would grow,—
While the redbreast followed in every row,
To hapless earth-worms a keen-eyed foe,—
The noisy ploughman cried, “Whoa-hishe-whoa!
Back, now, steady! haw, Bright! haw, Snow!”
Or whistled to cheer his labor.

The delicate petals faded slow,
Their annual doom repeating;
And the sprouting grass, and the path below,
Were covered white with their fragrant snow,
Dancing and drifting to and fro;
And almost ere they had vanished, lo!
The tiny apples began to grow
On the boughs of the high-top sweeting.

Scarcely the curious sun peered through,
In his hottest summer beating,
The heavy branches, so thick they grew;
We children played there, from dawn till dew,
Laughing and romping, a merry crew;
And if it rained, or a hail-storm blew,
Sheltered beneath it, we hardly knew;
And the sods were worn, and the wind-falls few
Under the high-top sweeting.