Poems (Tynan)/Of the Apple
OF THE APPLE
The apples in the garden bed Turned ripe and rosy to the South; The youngest novice shook her head, And eyed them with a watering mouth.
She said: "Our Mother Eve wrought woe Once with the deadly apple's bite: God keeps mine eyes from following so After my evil appetite."
Down came the saint, and gathered then Of all the ripest, sweetest one,Clear amber-cheeked, with ruddy stain, From the hot kisses of the sun.
She ate, and praised God as she ate, That He made apples very good. "He might," she said, "have given the date, The fig, the orange, for our food;
"Nor yet made apples, to delight The eye, the smell, the palate fine: For these my grateful appetite Praises the Giver kind, divine.
"Sister," she said, "come, pluck and eat, And thank with me the Lord, Who made For us such flavours, cool and sweet, Wherewith the world abounds," she said.