Explore "The Apple-Trees at Even" by Thomas Nelson Page on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
Ah! long ago it seems to me, / Those sweet old days of summer, / When I was young and fair was she, / And sorrow only rumor.
And all the world was less than naught / To me who had her favor; / For Time and Care had not then taught / How Life of Death hath savor.
And all the day the roving bees / Clung to the swinging clover, / And robins in the apple-trees / Answered the faint-voiced plover.
And all the sounds were low and sweet; / The zephyrs left off roaming / In curving gambols o'er the wheat, / To kiss her in the gloaming.
The apple-blossoms kissed her hair, / The daisies prayed her wreathe them; / Ah, me! the blossoms still are there, / But she lies deep beneath them.
I now have turned my thoughts to God, / Earth from my heart I sever; / With fast and prayer I onward plod -- / With prayer and fast forever.
Yet, when the white-robed priest speaks low / And bids me think of Heaven, / I always hear the breezes blow / The apple-trees at even.