An Echo

Let the fruit ripen one by one
On the sunny wall;
If it fall
Who is it suffers? What harm is done?
None at all.

An Eve in the garden am I;
Behold, this one
In the sun
Falls with a touch, and I let it lie,
My first one.

One fresh from the bough; I break it;
The red juice flies
Into my eyes.
Shall I swallow, leave, or take it,
Or despise?

Sweet to my taste was that second
And I hold it meet
That I eat;
But ah me! Are the bruised ones reckoned
At my feet?