My mother mentioned on the phone this morning that she had put up applesauce from her apple tree, and it reminded me of a poem that I first encountered in freshman English Literature and have loved ever since. You can find the full poem at http://www.potw.org/archive/potw279.html, if you would like to read more.
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness!
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;
To bend with apples the mossed cottage-treees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
Wth a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o'er-brimmed their clammy cells.
|Apple tree at Robert Frost Farm, New Hampshire|