  THE ripest peach is highest on the tree— And so her love, beyond the reach of me, Is dearest in my sight. Sweet breezes, bow Her heart down to me where I worship now! She looms aloft where every eye may see The ripest peach is highest on the tree. Such fruitage as her love I know, alas! I may not reach here from the orchard grass. I drink the sunshine showered past her lips As roses drain the dewdrop as it drips. The ripest peach is highest on the tree, And so mine eyes gaze upward eagerly. Why—why do I not turn away in wrath And pluck some heart here hanging in my path?— Love’s lower boughs bend with them—but, ah me! The ripest peach is highest on the tree. James Whitcomb Riley. FOOTNOTES: |
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