The Wise Fool Speaks

I kept an orchard once wherein a single apple grew,
As fair as any fruit that any tree has ever borne:
Its skin was firm as willow-wand and golden as the dew,
Its scent was wine and honey on the wind-song morn.

At dawn I came to check the bough and see no leaf was sere;
At dusk I stopped to water all the earth around the root:
So every day I tended it, and stole throughout the year
A thousand careless glances at the slow-ripe fruit.

With every week that passed I waited more impatiently:
The fruit grew daily heavier and brighter in my sight—
Until one day, too early still, I plucked it from the tree
And ate, and found the apple and myself unripe.