Apple-Gathering.

Essex flats are pink with clover, Kent is crowned with flaunting hops, Whitely shine the cliffs of Dover, Yellow wave the Midland crops;

Sussex Downs the flocks grow sleek on, But, for me, I love to stand Where the Herefordshire beacon Watches o'er his orchard land.

Where now sun, now shadow dapples-- As it wavers in the breeze-- Clumps of fresh-complexioned apples On the heavy-laden trees:

Red and yellow, streaked and hoary, Russet-coated, pale or brown-- Some are dipped in sunset glory, And some painted by the dawn.

What profusion, what abundance! Not a twig but has its fruits; High in air some in the sun dance, Some lie scattered near the roots.

These the hasty winds have taken Are a green, untimely crop; Those by burly rustics shaken Fall with loud resounding plop.

In this mellow autumn weather, Ruddy 'mid the long green grass, Heaped-up baskets stand together, Filled by many a blowsy lass.

Red and yellow, streaked and hoary, Pile them on the granary floors, Till the yule-log's flame in glory Loudly up the chimney roars;

Till gay troops of children, lightly Tripping in with shouts of glee, See ripe apples dangling brightly On the red-lit Christmas-tree.