I seem to have this orange in my room,
And in the light of morning turn it round.
I find no flaw in it on any side.
A goodly orange, ripe, with tender coat
Of that deep reddish yellow, like fine gold.
Perhaps the tree had wrapped its roots about
A chest of treasure, and had drawn the wealth
Into its heart to spend it on its fruit.
But while I slowly turn the orange round,
And look more closely, lo, the slightest cut!--
A deep incision made by some sharp steel.
I carefully cut the rind, and without once
Breaking the fine apartments of the fruit,
Or spilling thence a drop of golden juice,
Find that one room through which the steel has passed.
This I dissect, and, testing as I can,
Fail to discover aught that's poisonous.