My little daughter is a tea-rose, Satin to the touch, Wine to the lips, And a faint, delirious perfume. But my little son Is a June apple, Firm and cool, And scornful of too much sweetness, But full of tang and flavor And better than bread to the hungry. O wild winds, and clumsy, pilfering bees, With the whole world to be wanton in, Will you not spare my little tea-rose? And O ruthless blind creatures, Who lay eggs of evil at the core of life, Pass by my one red apple, That is so firm and sound!