James Whitcomb Riley

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!
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