DEAD heat and windless air, And silence over all; Never a leaf astir, But the ripe apples fall; Plums are purple-red, Pears amber and brown; @3Thud!@1 in the garden-bed! Ripe apples fall down. Air like a cider-press With the bruised apples' scent; Low whistles express Some sleepy bird's content; Still world and windless sky, A mist of heat o'er all; Peace like a lullaby, And the ripe apples fall. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE RETIREMENT; TO MR. IZAAK WALTON by CHARLES COTTON A BED OF FORGET-ME-NOTS by CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTI ABRAHAM LINCOLN (1) by RICHARD HENRY STODDARD VERS LIBRE by FRANKLIN PIERCE ADAMS THE FLIGHT OF THE GODDESS by CELIA THAXTER |