Poems (Tynan)/Of the Apple

by Katharine Tynan

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.