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?