I bought a box of apricots: The first was sweeter than Honey from any hive. The second was so bitter It made my tastebuds Run and hide. As I contemplated the third, I had not learnt my lesson - This one was over ripe and rotten: It had gone to apricot heaven. How much like life are my apricots, Full of summer's scorn! The first part hung upon the tongue Like dew upon the morn! The second was a trial, barely edible But swallowed none the less... This third part has gone moldy And is more trial than it is test. I sit weaving words with my book Upon my lap. I have a sharpened pencil that on the Side of my nose I tap. I draw upon those apricots Honied and ripe and golden And I swing upon the hairshirt Of the parts to which my heart's Sadness is beholden.