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!