The apple blossom from the bough is falling
In sunshine hours, the long young days of summer,
The parent birds from branch to branch are calling,
To cheer the flight of each beloved new-comer.
The woods awake, their winter sleep is ended,
The lark springs high from meadows deep and sunny,
The earth's astir with hopes anew and splendid,
And Iwhat shall I do without my honey?
The young blood sings, the young feet dance in going,
For youth is glad, and joy would mate with laughter;
They were for him, her sweet years' tender glowing,
And not for me to house 'neath roof and rafter.
The empty nest hangs on the bough forsaken,
Youth flies from age and all that's dull and dreary;
The old branch breaks, the withered leaf is shaken,
And Iwhat shall I do without my dearie?
And as I pause on life's path long and winding,
The young pass on with voices glad and golden,
And show me there the marvels they are finding.
So new to them, alas, to me so olden!
As lone I wait, all weary of my going,
Beside the church, with garden green and sunny,
Where sleep my dead, hushed by the soft winds blowing,
I hear a voice that calls, "Come to us, honey!"
