I came upon an apple tree
And there it hung, deliciously
A dozen feet or somewhere close
I spied an apple, and engrossed
I stared and wondered what I’d do
Its height was great, so I withdrew
I sat atop a dead old stump
And checked my hand for any trump
Completely vexed by my great strife
Of having not the apple ripe
I strode up to the great big Red
And under branches, meekly said:
Sweet apple hang above my hand
I truly doubt you’ll ever land
Though just in case you choose to fall
My hand is here this day, and all
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem