Like the sweet apple which reddens upon the topmost bough,
Atop on the topmost twig,— which the pluckers forgot somehow,—
Forgot it not, nay, but got it not, for none could get it till now.
Like the wild hyacinth flower which on the hills is found,
Which the passing feet of the shepherds forever tear and wound,
Until the purple blossom is trodden into the ground.