Grandfather's "summer sweets" are ripe.
Out on the gnarled old tree,
Out where the robin redbreasts pipe,
And buzzes the bumblebee;
Swinging high on the bending bough,
Scenting the lazy breeze,
What is the gods' ambrosia now
To apples of gold like these?

Ruddy the blush of their maiden cheeks
After the sunbeam's kiss—
Every quivering leaflet speaks,
Telling a tale of bliss;
Telling of dainties hung about,
Each in a verdant wreath,
Shimmering satin all without,
Honey and cream beneath.

Would ye haste to the banquet rare,
Taste of the feast sublime?
Brush from the brow the lines of care,
Scoff at the touch of Time?
Come in the glow of the olden days,
Come with a youthful face,
Come through the old familiar ways,
Up from the dear, old place.

Barefoot, trip through the meadow lane,
Laughing at bruise and scratch;
Come, with your hands all rich with stain
Fresh from the blackberry patch;
Come where the orchard spreads its store
And the breath of the clover greets;
Quick! they are waiting you here once more,—
Grandfather's "summer sweets."

Grandfather's "summer sweets" are ripe,
Out on the gnarled, old tree—
Out where the robin redbreasts pipe,
And buzzes the bumblebee;
Swinging high on the bending bough,
Scenting the lazy breeze,
What is the gods' ambrosia now
To apples of gold like these?