HONEY DRIPPING FROM THE COMB

How slight a thing may set one's fancy drifting

Upon the dead sea of the Past!— A view —

Sometimes an odor — or a rooster lifting

A far-off “OOH! OOH-OOH!”

And suddenly we find ourselves astray

In some wood's-pasture of the Long Ago —

Or idly dream again upon a day

Of rest we used to know.

I bit an apple but a moment since —

A wilted apple that the worm had spurned,—

Yet hidden in the taste were happy hints

Of good old days returned.—

And so my heart, like some enraptured lute,

Tinkles a tune so tender and complete,

God's blessing must be resting on the fruit —

So bitter, yet so sweet!