I picked an apple from the ground,
A perfect apple, red and round.
Its spicy perfume shy and sweet,
Stole from the ground beneath my feet,
Borne on a wind that lightly flew,
Through the deep dome of cloudless blue.
A swarm of ants had found the prize,
Before it met my wandering eyes,
And careless in their busy pleasure,
Ran o’er and o’er the fragrant treasure.
I blew them off, nor cared to know
Whither the luckless things might go.
So He who holdeth in his hand
This perfect world on which we stand,
Blows us, ah, whither? with His breath,
Our friends who miss us call it “Death!”