University of Virginia Library

Out by my door the apple tree,
With wholesome hospitality,
Stretches abroad its friendly hands
To welcome all the airy bands.
Its knotted branches, worn and gray,
Show some bright burden every day.
In Winter-time the woodpecker
Makes in those boughs his tiny stir,
The little tap of busy bill
The signal of his work and skill:
With sober coat and spark of red
Cresting his smooth, obsequious head,
He seems in eager haste to be
Inspecting that old apple tree.
There the neat snow-bird in the sun
Sits when his frugal meal is done;
For him those pale and scanty rays
Have the kind charm of Summer days.
His slaty coat and snowy breast
Like some old Friend for meeting dressed.
His aspect trim, and short black beak;
His shining eye, severely meek;
His bold, familiar, close advance,
With sidewise head and sidelong glance,
Delight mine eye when cold winds blow.
I love him, but he brings the snow.

Here when the Spring begins to call
The sparrow sings his madrigal;
Through sleet and hail, in shine or rain,
I hear him o'er and o'er again:
“Resilio! silio! silio! sil!”
He warbles with such cheery will,
I bless the sweet, persistent song,
And wish my courage were as strong.
On him the blue-bird follows fast,
His whistle too defies the blast,
His bosom red and mantle blue
With the first South Wind's breath are due.
He brings the blossoms hope and cheer,
As deep in dust his song they hear.
Then the fat robin bends the boughs,
Prospecting for his summer house;
So red and round, he seems to be
Himself an apple on the tree.
With plaintive song he prophesies
Long days of rain, though bright the skies;
And when the sun returns once more
He sings yet louder than before,
Struts on the fence, chirps sharp and loud,
By no insulting rival cowed,
With dauntless heart and ready wing,
To flout a rival or to sing.
Then come the softer days and airs:
Each knotted twig its wreath prepares,
As tender flowers of pink and pearl
Those sturdy crimson buds unfurl,
Till all the tree more lovely shows,
Decked with its slight and gracious rose,
Than tropic forests high in air
Or almond blooms on branches bare.
Then tiny warblers flit and sing,
With golden spots on crest and wing,
Or, decked with scarlet epaulette,
Above each dusky winglet set,
They hunt the blossoms for their prey
And pipe their fairy roundelay.
The crimson finch, with whirr and trill
Painted like sunsets, red and chill,
Perched in a knot of blossoms pale,
Nods his quick head and flirts his tail,
And calls his sober-suited spouse
To dinner in the fragrant boughs.
Before him tribes shall disappear
That threat the promise of the year;
And when awhile he gives them rest,
To build his warm and secret nest,
The goldfinch, social, chirping, bright,
Takes in those branches his delight.
A troop like flying sunbeams pass
And light among the vivid grass,
Or on the end of some long branch,
Light acrobats, in air they launch,
And in the wild wind sway and swing,
Intent to twitter, glance, and sing;
Till overhead the oriole
Pours out the passion of his soul,
A winged flame that darts and burns
Dazzling where'er his bright wing turns,
Yet fierce to scold, to rout, to fight,
Battle with peers his chief delight,
And many a song of victory
Awakes and thrills the apple tree!

But Summer brings these branches peace;
The song and strife of Spring-time cease;
Their homes are built, each feathered breast
Is busied with its little nest.
Careless of praise, secure of food,
They keep the Father's promise good,
And preach their tender homily
Of hope and love and trust, to me.

Then comes the ripening Autumn-time,
That rounds my tree's abundant prime.
Its boughs are bent with fragrant fruit,
Flushed with the sun that warms its root
And yellow as the starry light
That rained from heaven each Summer night.
Now comes another noisy troop,
On every dropping sphere to swoop,
With ragged coats, and saucy eye,
And tangled hair, they wander by,
Waiting for some kind moment when
The wind will swing the gate again,
And leave their feet an entrance free
To gather apples from my tree.
I do not love them like the birds,
These graceless, chattering, idle herds;
Yet shall the birds my bounty share
And these small urchins find it spare?
Has Heaven no lesson taught to me
By this my generous apple tree?