Winter Apples

I would sing of winter apples,

     Now the trees are bare and cold,

Now Jack Frost has stripped the forests

     Of their raiment red and gold.

Lonesome now the orchard monarchs,

     Bending to the wintry blast;

Moaning for their swaying apples,

     Which are gathered in at last.

I would sing of winter apples,

     In the cellar warm and snug;

Apples poured in dusty barrels,

     Or, mayhap. the old stone jug.

Apples stacked in bins or barrels,

     Apples crimson, green and gold,

For the party, or the “parin’”,

     When the nights are long and cold.

I would sing of winter apples –

     As the treasure of the farm;

Sing of nights around the fireplace,

     Of the “wishing’s” mystic charm.

Apples russet, apples yellow,

     Apples blushing as a bride;

I would sing of winter apples,

     Jewels of the countryside!

Oct. 30, 1916