1872 Arbor day program, the first
They planted apple trees, and every spring
Their memory hangs sweet upon the air.
Their children's children dead; so who would fling
Memorial blooms, or breathe a silent prayer?
They planted apple trees. The granite maze
Above their graves is green with ancient moss;
But still the orchard chants its vernal praise
And pays autumnal tribute to their loss.
The rotted trunks may split in twain with age,
Sumach encircled as with Indian foe;
The Century turn from them its withered page
But still the trees they planted live and grow.
What is the Statesman's waning fame to these?
Through countless wars, bloom on the apple trees.
AMY LEE SPENCER.
They planted apple trees, and every spring
Their memory hangs sweet upon the air.
Their children's children dead; so who would fling
Memorial blooms, or breathe a silent prayer?
They planted apple trees. The granite maze
Above their graves is green with ancient moss;
But still the orchard chants its vernal praise
And pays autumnal tribute to their loss.
The rotted trunks may split in twain with age,
Sumach encircled as with Indian foe;
The Century turn from them its withered page
But still the trees they planted live and grow.
What is the Statesman's waning fame to these?
Through countless wars, bloom on the apple trees.
AMY LEE SPENCER.
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