I am but an apple
Hung upon a graceful bow
Of an apple tree.
I am not a silly apple
I do not pretend
I am the only apple.
I know I will grow ripe
The winds of the world
Will tug at me.
The tree will tire of me
Dropping me to the ground
Bruised among the others.
I will rot on the ground
Only to find my self
Once more an apple.
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Comments about this poem (An Apple by Frederick Francis )
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(27 October 1914 – 9 November 1953)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
Percy Bysshe Shelley
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