The Apple Tree

The apple tree beside the gate

had not borne much good fruit of late,

Some boughs were dead, it seemed to me,

And so I took my saw to see

If cutting hard right through a limb

Would cause renewal where a trim

Might cause disease and rot to spread,

And so I chopped and then, in dread,

I leapt aside

And after that knew nothing more,

And all that I had known before

Was spilled upon the warm, spring ground,

Not just the tree, but I had died.

And now my soul just hangs around,

Beside the stump, beside the gate

And it is now my thankless fate

To warn my fellow men to wait

And not to rush too hard to prune.

For suddenly, at once, too soon,

A rot much deeper than supposed

Reveals itself and when exposed

The whole tree, so frail and weak

Comes crashing down upon the head

Of him who seeks to interfere.

For good intentions, most sincere,

Can serve no purpose when you’re dead.

Heed my warning, time is late,

I know too well of what I speak,

Learn the lesson that I tell

Digest it deeply, chew it well,

Don’t let it be your own sad fate,

To hang about beside the gate

Where once a thing of beauty stood,

Which you destroyed to do it good,

To bring new shoots and healthy fruit,

You’ll kill it and yourself to boot.