Those are the Rhode Island greenings;
Excellent apples for pies;
There are no mystical meanings
In fruit of that color and size.
They are too coarse and too juiceful;
They are too large and too useful.
There are the Baldwins and Flyers,
Wrapped in their beautiful fires!
Color forks up from their stems
As if painted by Flora,
Or as out from the pole stream the flames
Of the Northern Aurora.
Here shall our quest have a close;
Fill up your basket with those;
Bite through their vesture of flame,
And then you will gather
All that is meant by the name,
"Seek-no-farther!"
David.
The native orchard's fairest trees,
Wild springing on the hill,
Bear no such precious fruits as these,
And never will;
Till ax and saw and pruning knife
Cut from them every bough,
And they receive a gentler life
Than crowns them now.
And Nature's children, evermore,
Though grown to stately stature,
Must bear the fruit their fathers bore—
The fruit of nature;
Till every thrifty vice is made
The shoulder for a scion,
Cut from the bending trees that shade
The hills of Zion.
Sorrow must crop each passion-shoot,
And pain each lust infernal,
Or human life can bear no fruit
To life eternal.
For angels wait on Providence;
And mark the sundered places,
To graft with gentlest instruments
The heavenly graces.
Ruth.