Would God I were the tender apple blossom,
that floats and falls from off the twisted bough.
To lie and faint within your silken bosom,
whitin your silken bosom as that does now!
Or would I were a little burnished apple,
for you to pluck me, gliding by so cold,
While sun and shade your robe of lawn will dapple,
your robe of lawn and your hair's spun gold.