Here's an actual spring-time poem, reminiscing about playing underneath apple trees.
The apple tree is white with bloom ;
Through Spring air filters soft perfume ;
And shadows lie in drifts of pink.
O thirsty soul, come here to drink !
Come, to your weary lips lift up
A draught that brims in memory's cup,
Fragrant with years when, all abloom,
This tree for children's play made room.
It roofed with pink their happy hearts,
And through white rifts sent sunbeam darts;
They had no thought beyond their glee
When sporting 'neath the apple tree.
Alas! my steps have wandered far
From apple bloom and childhood's star ;
I had well-nigh forgot the day
That canopied with flowers my play.
But years may pass and bring regret,
Sad thoughts may start the tears,--- and yet
My childhood heart returns to me
When blossoms forth the apple tree.