I’m idly thinking it sure must be
That the rollicking sport of the apple-bee,
—The sweetness of smiles, the touch of the
white
Hands flashing there in the candle-light,—
Must all in a mystic way be blent
In one grand flavor;—that such was lent
To those mellowing strings, those festoons dun
Swinging there in the late fall sun.
For lo, as I look I seem to see