THE PLANTING OF THE APPLE-TREE Come, let us plant the apple-tree. Cleave the tough greensward with the spade; What plant we in this apple-tree? Buds, which the breath of summer days Shall lengthen into leafy sprays; Boughs where the thrush, with crimson breast, Shall haunt and sing and hide her nest; We plant, upon the sunny lea, A shadow for the noontide hour, What plant we in this apple-tree? Sweets for a hundred flowery springs To load the May-wind's restless wings, When, from the orchard-row, he pours Its fragrance through our open doors; A world of blossoms for the bee, Flowers for the sick girl's silent room, For the glad infant sprigs of bloom, We plant with the apple-tree. What plant we in this apple-tree? While children come, with cries of glee, And seek them where the fragrant grass Betrays their bed to those who pass, At the foot of the apple-tree. And when, above this apple-tree, And guests in prouder homes shall see, The fruitage of this apple-tree Each year shall give this apple-tree And time shall waste this apple-tree. Shall fraud and force and iron will "Who planted this old apple-tree?" Born in the rude but good old times; 'T is said he made some quaint old rhymes, On planting the apple-tree." THE MAY SUN SHEDS AN AMBER LIGHT The May sun sheds an amber light On new-leaved woods and lawns between; But she, who with a smile more bright, Welcomed and watched the springing green, Is in her grave, Low in her grave. The fair white blossoms of the wood Low in her grave. Upon the woodland's morning airs Is in her grave, Low in her grave. That music of the early year Brings tears of anguish to my eyes; Within her grave, Low in her grave. EDGAR ALLAN POE [Born at Boston, January 19, 1809; died at Baltimore, October 7, 1849] THE RAVEN Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December, And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain Thrilled me filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before; So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating "'T is some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door, Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; — This it is and nothing more." Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer, That I scarce was sure I heard you - here I opened wide the door; Darkness there and nothing more. Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing, Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before; But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token, And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore?" This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word," Lenore!" Merely this and nothing more. Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning, Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter, he; But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door, Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door : Perched, and sat, and nothing more. Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore, "Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no craven, Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore : Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!" Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore." Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly, Though its answer little meaning- little relevancy bore; |