An echo

the fruit ripen one by one
 * On the sunny wall;
 * If it fall

Who is it suffers? What harm is done?
 * None at all.

An Eve in the garden am I;
 * Behold, this one
 * In the sun

Falls with a touch, and I let it lie,
 * My first one.

One fresh from the bough; I break it;
 * The red juice flies
 * Into my eyes.

Shall I swallow, leave, or take it,
 * Or despise?

Sweet to my taste was that second
 * And I hold it meet
 * That I eat;

But ah me! Are the bruised ones reckoned
 * At my feet?