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The Old Apple-Tree

RE's a memory keeps a-runnin'Through my weary head to-night,

An' I see a picture dancin'In the fire-flames' ruddy-light;'Tis the picture of an orchard Wrapped in autumn's purple haze,

With the tender light about

That I loved in other days.

An' a-standin' in a

Once again I seem to

The verdant leaves an'

Of an old apple-tree.

You perhaps would call it ugly,

An' I don't know but it's so,

When you look the tree all

Unadorned by memory's glow;

For its boughs are gnarled an' crooked,

An' its leaves are gettin' thin,

An' the apples of its bearin'Wouldn't fill so large a

As they used to.

But I tell you,

When it comes to pleasin' me,

It's the dearest in the orchard, —Is that old apple-tree.

I would hide within its shelter,

Settlin' in some cosy nook,

Where no calls nor threats could stir

From the pages o' my book.

Oh, that quiet, sweet

In its fulness passeth words!

It was deeper than the

That my sanctum now affords.

Why, the jaybirds an' the robins,

They was hand in glove with me,

As they winked at me 'an

In that old apple-tree.

It was on its sturdy

That in summers long ago I would tie my swing an'

In contentment to an' fro,

Idly dreaming' childish fancies,

Buildin' castles in the air,

Makin' o' myself a hero Of romances rich an' rare.

I kin shet my eyes an' see it Jest as plain as plain kin be,

That same old swing a-danglin'To the old apple-tree.

There's a rustic seat beneath

That I never kin forget.

It's the place where me an' Hallie — Little sweetheart — used to set,

When we'd wander to the

So's no listenin' ones could hear As I whispered sugared

Into her little willin' ear.

Now my gray old wife is Hallie,

An' I'm grayer still than she,

But I'll not forget our courtin' 'Neath the old apple-tree,

Life for us ain't all been summer,

But I guess we've had our

Of its flittin' joys an' pleasures,

An' a sprinklin' of its care.

Oft the skies have smiled upon us;

Then again we've seen 'em frown,

Though our load was ne'er so

That we longed to lay it down.

But when death does come a-callin',

This my last request shall be, —That they'll bury me an' Hallie'Neath the old apple-tree.

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Paul Laurence Dunbar

Paul Laurence Dunbar (June 27, 1872 – February 9, 1906) was an American poet, novelist, and playwright of the late 19th and early 20th centuries…

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