'Ithin the woodlands, flow'ry gleaded, By the woak tree's mossy moot, The sheenen grass-bleades, timber-sheaded, Now do quiver under voot; An' birds do whissle over head, An' water's bubblen in its bed, An' there vor me the apple tree Do lean down low in Linden Lea. When leaves that leately wer a-springen Now do feade 'ithin the copse, An' painted birds do hush their zingen Up upon the timber's tops; An' brown-leav'd fruit's a-turnen red, In cloudless zunsheen, over head, Wi' fruit vor me, the apple tree Do lean down low in Linden Lea. Let other vo'k meake money vaster In the air o' dark-room'd towns, I don't dread a peevish measter; Though noo man do heed my frowns, I be free to goo abrode, Or teake agean my homeward road To where, vor me, the apple tree Do lean down low in Linden Lea. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...CHAMBER MUSIC: 18 by JAMES JOYCE THE QUALITY OF COURAGE by STEPHEN VINCENT BENET CONTRA MORTEM: THE WHEEL OF BEING II by HAYDEN CARRUTH WOODSMOKE AT 70 by HAYDEN CARRUTH BATTLE OF BRITAIN by CECIL DAY LEWIS THE BIRDS DO THUS by ROBERT FROST |