When summer sun like polished brass
Cured clover hay in scorching air,
We climbed our Early Harvest trees
For mellow apples lurking there.
Or spliced our fish poles in a plan
To knock the striped Astrakhan;
Yellow Transparent lured us too
For fruit-bait goodness overdue.
On August noons, wheat-threshing crews
Lay resting under maple shade;
We found the streaked Sheepnose ripe
And filled straw hats with every raid.
With autumn days of bronze and gold,
As cobwebs floated on the breeze
A host of old time favorites bowed
The boughs of family orchard trees.
Wolf River’s heavy, flattened fruit,
The Duchess and Bellflower’s spice,
Red Wealthy’s mealy, tempting bite
Made apple-eating paradise.
Now new kinds ship and rarely bruise
To sparkle bright on Produce Row
But lack the subtle flavor thrills
Of orchard tastes we used to know.