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41 MAYAPPLE HILL Children warned against the Mandrake— Apple of the twisted root, On the hilltop every summer, Suckle at the golden fruit; Suck the pale exotic fragrance, Revel in the mellow pome— Children, drunken with the sunlight, In the evening stagger home— Nor at bedtime sense the fever, Nor at morning any chill— Taken from the tumored apple, Golden on the August hill. * * * * * All the children of the summer Sleeping drowsy in the sun Of the upland, August meadow— With their golden fevers done— Children of the earth who reveled In the sweetness of the fruit— Lying with their limbs disheveled In the Mandrake’s twisted root— Children of the twisted torsos, Lying always, oh, so still— Where the Mandrake’s tumored apples Ripen mellow on the hill. ...

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