That Spring the gnarled and ancient apple tree,
Feeling the May wind's kiss, unfurled
Green leaves like flags to greet the sun, and all
Its crown grew white with blossom where great bees
With pollen-dusted fur flew day-long flights
To hive the harvest of the scented boughs.
Now on the Autumn ground the apples lie,
And with them soon will mingle in the mould
The leaves whose edges even now are brown
With death; for deadlier than the keenest axe
The kiss of too much living drove the tree
To greater harvest than its back could bear.
A kissing wind that did not dream its power
A tree that could not feel the limits of
Its all too feeble strength -- by chance the two
Combined. The end their union formed was fruit.
But which of us who dreams and feels can say
Whether the end of fruit be life or death?