For my wife. The last four lines still send me: “’Tis the red, red apples aglow in her cheeks …”  

The kiss on me you planted, 
Planted deep the seed, 
That bore the fruits of love, 
Resplendent in all I see. 
Your skin a velvety peach, 
Your lips a kiwi treat, a 
Slender stem your neck to me. 
Your eyes, a shade of  
Dusty boysenberry. 
Your soul casaba sweet, 
Your cherry philosophy, 
Your plum personality, — 
    All ovaries under the sun, 
    Maturing in every degree. 
But of all the pomes I thee list, 
To befall this novice botanist, 
‘Tis the red, red apples,  
Aglow in your cheeks, 
That ripen most my heart, 
And plenish most my tree.