Classic Poem

I am the wild apple tree,
The grafter's knife has not scarred me,
My long boughs, hanging to the ground,
The pruning hook has never found.
And I am radiant for delight
Of Spring bees in their first long flight,
Secret for blue birds that sing
On branches where the last snows cling,
Serene through August, with no fear
Of thieves or reapers coming near
To leave me bare and broken. Oh,
Your tame, trained trees are praised, I know,
But what do they get for their pain
But hope that they will give again?
My small, rough fruit falls to the ground
Where lately my white sap was found.
I have my own again. You see
The cycle of the year in me,
Nourished by my children. These
Nuggets beneath wild apple trees
Are stronger than fat fruit that's proud
In market places for the crowd.
I am the wild apple tree,
And no one takes my own from me.