V
The maple and the apple-trees,
Around his home, are blossoming,
There is the hum of insects’ wings,
The droning of the honey-bees.
This is the season, he loved best,—
To labor in his garden-plot,
To prune the trees that flourished not,—
This was to him a pleasant rest.
For he from youth was nature’s child,
He loved unfeigned simplicity,
He found it in the field and tree,
In bird and beast, the tame and wild.
He found it in the “common” folk,
He loved them, they loved him again,
He was the poor and needy’s friend,
His feeding tramps became a joke.
For it is told, both near and far,
How he the tramp led to his board,
To all the best it could afford,
Then offered him a choice cigar.
Forgive a smile amid the tear,
The simple hearts will understand,
And bless the kind, unstinted hand,
Which gave to them new hope and cheer.
The apple trees send out their sweet,
The purple pomp of maples droop,
They stand alone, they stand in group,
And wait in vain their lord to greet.
VI
The morning lifts its saffron veil,
And smiles with happiness replete,
With Sabbath peace it doth us greet,
And with the risen Lord’s “All Hail!”