THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT 1 The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year, Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows brown and sear. Heaped in the hollows of the grove, the withered leaves lie dead; day. Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that lately sprang and stood In brighter light and softer airs, a beauteous sisterhood? Alas! they all are in their graves, the gentle race of flowers 3 The wind-flower and the violet, they perished long ago, on men, And the brightness of their smile was gone from upland, glade, and glen. 4 And now, when comes the calm mild day, as still such days will come, To call the squirrel and the bee from out their winter home; When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though all the trees are still, And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the rill, The south wind searches for the flowers whose fragrance late he bore, And sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream no more. Come, let us plant the apple tree! Wide let its hollow bed be made; There gently lay the roots, and there Sift the dark mold with kindly care, And press it o'er them tenderly, As round the sleeping infant's feet We softly fold the cradle sheet; So plant we the apple tree. 2 What plant we in this apple tree? Buds, which the breath of summer days Shall lengthen into leafy sprays; Boughs, where the thrush with crimson breast Shall haunt and sing and hide her nest. We plant upon the sunny lea A shadow for the noontide hour, A shelter from the summer shower, 3 What plant we in this apple tree? A world of blossoms for the bee, 4 What plant we in this apple tree? While children come, with cries of glee, And seek them where the fragrant grass Betrays their bed to those who pass, At the foot of the apple tree. 5 And when above this apple tree The winter stars are quivering bright, And winds go howling through the night, Girls whose young eyes o'erflow with mirth Shall peel its fruit by cottage hearth; And guests in prouder homes shall see, Heaped with the grape of Cintra's vine And golden orange of the line, The fruit of the apple tree. 6 The fruitage of this apple tree 7 And time shall waste this apple tree. Oh! when its aged branches throw Shall fraud and force and iron will |