The Book of the Native

by Charles G.D. Roberts


 

Apple Song


 

O the sun has kissed the apples,
    Kissed the apples;
And the apples, hanging mellow,
    Red and yellow,
All down the orchard seen
5
Make a glory in the green.

The sun has kissed the apples,
    Kissed the apples;
And the hollow barrels wait
    By the gate.

10
The cider-presses drip
With nectar for the lip.

The sun has kissed the apples,
    Kissed the apples;
And the yellow miles of grain

15
    Forget the rain.
The happy gardens yet
The winter’s blight forget.

The sun has kissed the apples,
    Kissed the apples;

20
O’er the marsh the cattle spread,
    White and red.
The sky is all as blue
As a gentian in the dew.

The sun has kissed the apples,

25
    Kissed the apples;
And the maples are ablaze
    Through the haze.
The crickets in their mirth
Fife the fruiting song of earth.
30

The sun has kissed the apples,
    Kissed the apples;
Now with flocking call and stir
    Birds confer,
As if their hearts were crost
35
By a fear of coming frost.

O the sun has kissed the apples,
    Kissed the apples;
And the harvest air is sweet
    On the wheat.

40
Delight is not for long,—
Give us laughter, give us song!