At Apple-Pickin' Time

At Apple-Pickin' Time.

by Mary A. Roberts

When a frosty carpet sparkles in the hollow 'neath the hill. 

And the night-chilled earth is waking from the dawning white and still, 

Oh, the air is crisp and bracing as a breeze from o'er the brine, 

Full of Nature's pungent nectar at apple-pickin' time! 

The leaves are golden yellow, the nuts are turning brown, 

And milkweed seeds sail weightless on their air-ships' silky down; 

Bold spiders, daring aeronauts, in filmy fastness float, 

A cobweb cable streaming from every wind-tossed boat; 

The air from purple vintage is heavy with new wine, 

Farewell madrigals the blackbirds sing at apple-pickin' time. 

Oh, the wealth of bearing orchards ! Oh, Hesperides' globes of gold! 

And apples red as rubies that Autumn's full hands hold! 

Fragrant as the fabled attar is the Pippin in its prime; 

Short-lived Autumn is a prodigal at apple-pickin' time.