Out in the orchard, years ago, There lived an ancient harvest tree, And golden apples used to grow To mellow ripeness there for me. The tree was low; its drooping limbs Hung like an arbor's draperies, And green leaves, crooning balmy hymns, Lured to its depths of shady ease. In May the ancient tree was white With tender blooms, and sight and sense Drunk deep of promise of delight In summer's juicy opulence. And as the lolling days grew warm The young fruit of seductive green Found refuge in my grateful form, And worked there, deadly and unseen. But all the trials were forgot, When, bursting full of lusciousness, The golden apples came, with not The faintest menace of distress. The hornets thronged their broken parts, The bluejays pecked them on the tree; But in each apple's heart of hearts A "honey-core" remained for me. ENVOY Good friend, life's promise oft is white, The unripe fruit may cause distress; But harvest-time will make it right— You 'll find a "honey-core," I guess. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A POST-IMPRESSIONIST SUSURRATION FOR THE FIRST OF NOVEMBER by HAYDEN CARRUTH CREDO by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON POETRY by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON THE BOSTON ATHENAEUM by AMY LOWELL A GUY I KNOW ON 47TH AND COTTAGE by CLARENCE MAJOR CONSECRATED GROUND; READ AT THE NEW YORK CITY HALL by EDWIN MARKHAM DOMESDAY BOOK: CHARLES WARREN, THE SHERIFF by EDGAR LEE MASTERS |