She was too green
To fall off that tree:
A fruit which promised
Sweetness to the eater
When ripe in her season.
She slipped at fourteen,
Leaving an after-mark
Of her grip on that tree,
From the abode of God
Into His consoling arms,
Into the truest ripeness
That nurtures an unceasing sweetness.
To you, tree which saw to her
Budding from a flower to a fruit,
And to you, limb which bore her weight,
As long as the sunbeams,
The air, and moistness remain,
Summer's dry will never impede
The blooming of your green.
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