You but walk past your apple trees each morning,
And blossoms fall, that they may settle on your breast,
Lie, and faint against your silk; I wish to God could I…
That chance you’d pluck this fruit, and in me find your rest.
Would They but let me live amongst the thorny roses,
That reach to kiss, as you float gently past;
Upon that lowest branch, ’tis me—a bud unclosing,
Though I be trodden underfoot, and crushed at last.
Without regret, or second thought, I’d bear thee,
Content to lie beneath the baby’s breath;
‘Tis still my home, in peace to dwell for ever,
Tread underfoot, pressed even unto death.
