Матильда Блайнд (Mathilde Blind)

Apple-Gathering

Essex flats are pink with clover,
  Kent is crowned with flaunting hops,
Whitely shine the cliffs of Dover,
  Yellow wave the Midland crops;

Sussex Downs the flocks grow sleek on,
  But, for me, I love to stand
Where the Herefordshire beacon
  Watches o'er his orchard land.

Where now sun, now shadow dapples--
  As it wavers in the breeze--
Clumps of fresh-complexioned apples
  On the heavy-laden trees:

Red and yellow, streaked and hoary,
  Russet-coated, pale or brown--
Some are dipped in sunset glory,
  And some painted by the dawn.

What profusion, what abundance!
  Not a twig but has its fruits;
High in air some in the sun dance,
  Some lie scattered near the roots.

These the hasty winds have taken
  Are a green, untimely crop;
Those by burly rustics shaken
  Fall with loud resounding plop.

In this mellow autumn weather,
  Ruddy 'mid the long green grass,
Heaped-up baskets stand together,
  Filled by many a blowsy lass.

Red and yellow, streaked and hoary,
  Pile them on the granary floors,
Till the yule-log's flame in glory
  Loudly up the chimney roars;

Till gay troops of children, lightly
  Tripping in with shouts of glee,
See ripe apples dangling brightly
  On the red-lit Christmas-tree.

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