The tree the apple takes on the first
Of the spring of autumn in the sun
Leads to a branch deep in the summer air
With one unmortal thought beneath its burrow,
With shade and shadows and wildflower mow.

This will not outlast the sowing of the year
By fall and winter and spring’s fault.
The second reaching for its harvesting
Will drown until the nethermost breath
Of land of life with flower-set sun can say
There is a garden gold among the weeds
With your heart as child’s in the sun.

• Robert Frost