  Such scurrying of blow and bluster out, Instilled a longing just to look about For one stray emblem of returning spring, Some form of life aquiver on the wing. A massive mound of snow towered mountain high. The nude trees, all ashiver stood opprest; One brave bough saluted the whistling wind, That had cruelly bared her aching breast. The tiny twigs twisted and twined for warmth, Still striving in vain for reviving breath, While the icy palm with a ruthless calm, Soon smote many a sickly one with death. Ah, me! Is that a vision which I see! Are those real, rosy apples on that tree? Or is it God’s own gleaming sun streams thru— A crimson hue, on them for me and you? Or must I deem it destiny of war— Bloody war, never known on earth before Stains them gore; or reflected words of cheer From afar, to home friends who writhe in fear. ’Tis Nature’s pretty prank our hearts have blest, Yet simple truth should always be confest; The flaunting fruit which flings high in that tree, Are merry, dancing, dangling apples three. |
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