Now Peregrine White was the first _white_, you know, Who drew his first breath in New England--the child, Whose parents were making to bud and to blow, With its earliest blossoms, America's wild: But he with the fruit never questioned me, whether We might partake of the apple together.
Though a fabled divinity once had let fall An apple of gold, where his favorites thronged, Inscribed, "Of the fair, to the fairest of all!" It was not to me this whole apple belonged: My friend was no god--and then I, but a woman; I thought that to halve it were just about human.
The whole I declined; still I did not deny A wish that, unuttered, was strong in my heart; And from it _entire_, while averting my eye, I own I was secretly coveting _part_; And had he divided the offering presented, Preserving one half, I had come off contented.
Had Solomon been there to put in a word, His wisdom had brought the debate to an end, Deciding at once, by the edge of his sword, This contest of kindness between friend and friend: Yet he with the apple was quite too short-sighted To see how I might in a half have delighted.
I hope that next autumn he 'll go where it grew, And, if not forbidden the fruit, that he 'll reach And pluck a fair apple, then cut it in two, And tell me at once that _a half is for each_. Of friendship's best gift how the worth may be lightened By having it whole, when, if shared, how 't were heightened!
A year after the foregoing poem was written, a nice little casket was sent me, at the distance of thirty-five miles, which, on opening, I found to contain the half of an apple like the one I had seen the previous autumn.
The half of an apple, well-flavored and fair, Which shows by division such soundness of heart, I gratefully hold; and acknowledge the care And kindness of him, who retains t 'other part.
The fruit, that would perish, I taste with delight, The seed taking out to lay cautiously by, Because it encloses, concealed from my sight, An emblem of that, which in us cannot die.
Its elements, when 't is laid low in the earth, If good, will arise in fresh verdure and bloom; As man's deathless soul seeks the world of its birth, When what it once dwelt in lies dark in the tomb.