You: an Achilles’ apple
Blushing sweet on a high branch
At the tip of the tallest tree.
You escaped those who would pluck your fruit.
Not that they didn’t try. No,
They could not forget you
Poised beyond their reach.
“In bed we laugh, in bed we cry, And born in bed, in bed we die; The near approach a bed may shew Of human bliss to human woe.”
Samuel Johnson | “À Son Lit,” from the French of Isaac de Benserade
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