Well, we are done with the brute;
Now let us look at the fruit,--
Every barrel, I'm told,
From grafts half a dozen years old.
That is a barrel of russets;
But we can hardly discuss its
Spheres of frost and flint,
Till, smitten by thoughts of Spring,
And the old tree blossoming,
Their bronze takes a yellower tint,
And the pulp grows mellower in't.
But oh! when they're sick with the savors
Of sweets that they dream of,
Sure, all the toothsomest flavors
They hold the cream of!
You will be begging in May,
In your irresistible way,
For a peck of the apples in gray.

Those are the pearmains, I think,--
Bland and insipid as eggs;
They were too lazy to drink
The light to its dregs,
And left them upon the rind--
A delicate film of blue--
Leave them alone;--I can find
Better apples for you.

Those are the Rhode Island greenings;