Apples

Apples taste of sunshine,— Apples taste of dew,— You may take a bite of mine And find that this is true.

Apples have the same scent As honey in the comb; The wind left it when he went, Or the bees brought it home.

Apples are rose-red outside And snow-white within But some like little jesters, pied— Go tumbling down the bin!—

When rosy apples on a tree Shine in October's sun I understand entirely How much Eve wanted one.