grow.

ON A YOUTH WHO DIED OF EXCESSIVE FRUIT PIE.

Currants have checked the current of my blood,

And berries brought me to be buried here;

Pears have pared off my body's hardihood,

And plums and plumbers spare not one so spare:

Fain would I feign my fall; so fair a fare

Lessens not fate, but 'tis a lesson good:

Gilt will not long hide guilt; such thin-washed ware

Wears quickly, and its rude touch soon is rued.

Grave on my grave some sentence grave and terse,

That lies not, as it lies upon my clay;

But in a gentle strain of unstrained verse,

Prays all to pity a poor patty's prey;

Rehearses I was fruit-full to my hearse,

Tells that my days are told, and soon I'm toll'd away!

- from Harper's New Monthly Magazine (1852)