The Apple Tree (original poem)

Wait for me

by the apple tree,

though my face you cannot see,

I beg you, wait for me.

Wait for me

in the fallen leaves,

once lovely blossoms of a tree—

pluck them not, wait for me.

For me wait,

by the broken gate.

Don’t dare to mend its wretched state.

Be still, and for me wait.

Still wait for me

by the old apple tree;

youth gone and in its sweet prime be.

Oh, please, still wait for me.

Still wait for me

when spring near be,

and blossoms bloom on apple tree.

There, still wait for me.

Still for me wait

whilst ice gathers on the broken gate,

and chill winds seem to not abate.

Stay, and for me wait.

Wait for me still

when winter’s chill

is warmed, and birds sing clear and shrill

my love, wait for me still.

Wait for me

though your eyes sleepy be;

while summer sun grows warmish hazy,

Prithee, still wait for me.

And when you hear the broken gate

open, and ears do hear my quickened gait,

Perceive me running, as you wait,

Joyous joy is my state.

You’ll pluck the fruit from apple tree

and share ripened sweetness with me.

Carved in that tree our names shall be

forever, for you waited for me.