Classic Poem

Behold yon hale old apple-tree,
In its wrinkled skin with mosses bound,
Yield to the south wind's sportive glee
The blossoms it scatters recklessly,
Like snowflakes over the ground.

Like snow in a night they will disappear,
Absorbed by the yearning earth;
But the fruits it hath borne for many a year,
The joy of urchins far and near,
That tree shall again bring forth.

And as those blossoms sown by the wind
Leave germing fruits on the bounteous tree,
So gentle words and charities kind,
Though man prove thankless, leave behind
Sweet germs for the hoards of memory.

And when deathward sighs the bosom heaves,
Though the kindly deeds we have done on earth
Should seem to us but as withered leaves,
While our sins, like serpents, in living sheaves,
Daunt the soul on the verge of its second birth;

The blossoms shall flower in Heaven again,
Where no wild breeze shall waft them away;
And the clang of the blow that breaks our chain
Shall drive the emblems of sin and pain,
The serpents, back to their dens of clay