Poems (Hardy)/A parable of apples
A PARABLE OF APPLES
A YOUTH named Jair, wise and strong and proud,Yet full of cynic judgment of his kind,With scrip and geologic hammer, climbedInto the mountains on a summer day,Away from college and the busy town.With scrap of eocene, and speckled boulder, gray,And garnet-veined, with shell and geode round,He felt his shoulder weighed, and so beganTo heed the tale more recent,—not less true,—Of hunger, heat, and thirst, himself exampled.
Then opportune he came upon a farmEncircled in a gracious mountain valeBy field, and wood, and stream, and orchard fair:One tree, with golden apples, one side blushed,Seductive boughs hung out above his head;He plucked and cut the fairest; black and deadIt opened on his sight. A second—Ah!His shuddering hand a hateful worm had cleft;A third, dead ripe and hollow, filled with ants.No more he plucked; impatient, sore, he turnedAnd swiftly sought the farmhouse on the hill.
'The farmer resting in his noonday shadeA cordial welcome gave and smiling spokeIn fond and boasting words of crop in field,On hills, and garden; of orchard,—"Betty, wife,The dish of Blushes from the porch.—Now, look,"He said, "the very best that grows on tree;Fill up your pockets, lad; they 're juicy, fine,For days like this. Nor mildew marks this tree,Nor worm, nor spot. Why, now, I wonder, boy,You did not help yourself along the road;I should not grudge."He smiled, "Your boasted tree,To me inhospitable, gave three timesBut worthless fruit, and so I judged the whole."
"Why, listen! Betty! Hear'st thou that?" he laughed;"He says our famous tree deceived him thrice,And so he would no more of it, no more,Because just three were bad,—just three." Low laughedThe farmer, fanning with his braided hat.
"So have I judged my fellow-men," mused Jair,Along the mountain road. "So have I missedThe essential mark and hit one lower with painsNot wasted had my arrow missed a star."