And its ceaseless hum and patter
Is the many million clatter
Of a vast surrounding main,—
Beating, beating, nor retreating
Till its hoof prints weld the chain
or a people—fleeting, fleeting
Into ocean's finny main.
THE FEAST OF APPLE BLOOM
And the days are rich with gold,
And the satin robe of the earth is set
With the jewels wrought of old;
When the woodlands wave in choral seas
And the purple mountains loom.
It is heaven to eome with birds and bees
To the feast of apple bloom.
For the cabled roof of the home arose
O'er the sheen of the orchard snow.
And is still my shrine when storms repose
And the gnarly branches blow;
While the music of childhood's singing heart,
That was lost in the backward gloom,
May be heard when the robins meet and part
At the feast of apple bloom.
And I think when the trees display crown
Like the gleam of a resting dove,
Of a face that was framed in tresses brown
And aglow with a mother's love;
At the end of the orchard path she stands,
While I laugh at my manhood's doom.
As my spirit flies with lifted hands
To the feast of apple bloom.
When the rainbow paths of faded skies
Are restored with the diamond rain,
And the joys of my wasted paradise
Are returning to earth again.
It Is sadder than death to know how brief
Are the smiles that the dead assume;
But a moment allowed, a flying leaf
From the feast of apple bloom.
