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?

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