On observing a large red-streak apple

In spite of ice, in spite of snow,In spite of all the winds that blow,In spite of hail and biting frost,Suspended here I see you tossedYou still retain your wonted holdThough days are short and nights are cold.Amidst this system of decayHow could you have one wish to stay?If fate or fancy kept your thereThey meant you for a solitaire.Were it not better to descend,Or in the cider mill to endThan thus to shiver in the stormAnd not a leaf to keep you warm—A moment, then, had buried all,Nor you have doomed so late a fall.

But should the stem to which you clingUphold you to another spring,Another race would round you riseAnd view the stranger with surprise,And, peeping from the blossoms sayAway, old dotard, get away!

Alas! small pleasure can there beTo dwell, a hermit, on the tree—Your old companions, all, are gone,Have dropped and perished, every one;You only stay to face the blast,A sad memento of the past.

Would fate or nature hear my prayer,I would your bloom of youth repairI would the wrongs of time restrainAnd bring your blossom state again:But fate and nature both say no;And you, though late must perish too.

What can we say, what can we hope?Ere from the branch I see you drop,All I can do, all in my powerWill be to watch your parting hour:When from the branch I see you fall,A grave we dig a-south the wall.There you shall sleep ‘til from your core,Of youngsters rises three or four;These shall salute the coming springAnd red-streaks to perfection bringWhen years have brought them to their primeAnd they shall have their summer’s time:This, this is all you can attain,And thus, I bid you, live again!

1822

l. 10. solitaire: alone, an isolated example.

l. 22. dotard: old and feeble-minded, someone who dotes