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An apple-tree in Spring shakes me,—to see it grow, Its branches whitely weighted with unmelting snow. So might a hunch-backed girl stand, beautiful and dumb, As trembling, the tree stands, and strikes my genius numb. . . . It looks into the wide, pale shallows, mirror-clear, Seeking to shed the dews that stain it like a tear; And stilled with horror, groans like a rude, rusty cart, Seeing the dismal hunch mocked by the pool's bright art. When steely sleep alights upon the silent lake For the bent apple-tree, as for a sick girl's sake, I come to offer tenderness the boughs would miss, I press upon the petal-perfumed tree a kiss. Then trustingly, with tears, the tree confides her care To me, and brushes with a touch my back-blown hair. Her boughs encircle me, her little twigs enlace, And I lift up my lips to kiss her flowering face.