Oh! happy are the apples when the south winds blow.

On the road, the lonely road, Under the cold, white moon; Under the rugged trees he strode, Whistled and shifted his heavy load-- Whistled a foolish tune.

After the conquest of Afric, Greece, the lesser Asia, and Syria were brought into Italy all the sorts of their Mala, which we interprete apples, and might signify no more at first; but were afterwards applied to many other foreign fruits.

Art thou the topmost apple The gathers could reach, Reddening on the bough? Shall I not take thee?

What plant we in this apple tree? Sweets for a hundred flowery springs To load the May-wind's restless wings, When, from the orchard-row, he pours Its fragrance through our open doors; A world of blossoms for the bee, Flowers for the sick girl's silent room, For the glad infant sprigs of bloom, We plant with the apple tree.

There is little choice in a barrel of rotten apples.