In youthful days I saw old orchards bloom, And watched green apples turn to red and gold, And ripening, fall beneath the heavy bough. And now for years I've seen apples for sale, Piled high in polished shining pyramids, In dust and grime and flies of city streets, Until I am in danger of forgetting The bloom that apples have upon a tree. Today I know how Baldwins feel on fruitstands -- One cried in pain last night on Market Street. Flowers they say can speak, and why not apples? One learns to understand the apple-language, And this, I think, the shiny Baldwin said (One loses much of course in all translations): "Oh Maker of orchards, how can apples die, Treeless and sunless in the stench of streets! Oh for the murmuring leaves, the swaying bough! The nesting bird, the vagrant bee, the sun! The summer rain, the nipping autumn frost! The worm, the mildew, and the slow decay, Feeding the root of the perennial tree! Curious ideas you say? I too, my friend, am polished and for sale. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A PECK OF GOLD by ROBERT FROST FRAGMENT by JAMES WELDON JOHNSON TO MY CLASS: ON CERTAIN FRUITS AND FLOWERS SENT ... SICKNESS by SIDNEY LANIER A LITTLE GIRL'S PRAYER by KATHERINE MANSFIELD AUTUMN SONG by KATHERINE MANSFIELD |