Graceful and lithe and tall, It stands by the garden wall, In the flush of its pink-white bloom Elate with its own perfume. Tossing its young bright head In the first glad joy of May, While its singing leaves sing back To the bird on the dancing spray. “I’m alive! I’m abloom!” it cries To the winds and the laughing skies. Ho! for the gay young apple-tree That stands by the garden wall!
Sturdy and broad and tall, Over the garden wall It spreads its branches wide— A bower on either side. For the bending boughs hang low; And with shouts and gay turmoil The children gather like bees To garner the golden spoil; While the smiling mother sings, “Rejoice for the gift it brings! Ho! for the laden apple-tree That stands by our garden wall!”
The strong swift years fly past, Each swifter than the last; And the tree by the garden wall Sees joy and grief befall. Still from the spreading boughs Some golden apples swing; But the children come no more For the autumn harvesting. The tangled grass lies deep Where the long path used to creep; Yet ho! for the brave old apple-tree That leans o’er the crumbling wall!
Now generations pass, Like shadows on the grass. What is there that remains For all their toil and pains? A little hollow place Where once a hearthstone lay; An empty, silent space Whence life hath gone away; Tall brambles where the lilacs grew, Some fennel, and a clump of rue, And this one gnarled old apple-tree Where once was the garden wall!
THE COMFORTER
How dost thou come, O Comforter? In heavenly glory dressed, Down floating from the far-off skies, With lilies on thy breast? With silver lilies on thy breast, And in thy falling hair, Bringing the bloom and balm of heaven To this dim, earthly air?
How dost thou come, O Comforter? With strange, unearthly light, And mystic splendor aureoled, In trances of the night? In lone, mysterious silences, In visions rapt and high, And holy dreams, like pathways set Betwixt the earth and sky?
Not thus alone, O Comforter! Not thus, thou Guest Divine, Whose presence turns our stones to bread, Our water into wine! Not always thus—for thou dost stoop To our poor, common clay, Too faint for saintly ecstasy, Too impotent to pray.
How does God send the Comforter? Ofttimes through byways dim; Not always by the beaten path Of sacrament and hymn; Not always through the gates of prayer, Or penitential psalm, Or sacred rite, or holy day, Or incense, breathing balm.
How does God send the Comforter? Perchance through faith intense; Perchance through humblest avenues Of sight, or sound, or sense. Haply in childhood’s laughing voice Shall breathe the voice divine, And tender hands of earthly love Pour for thee heavenly wine!