Like the sweet apple that reddens At end of the bough-- Far end of the bough-- Left by the gatherer's swaying, Forgotten, so thou. Nay, not forgotten, ungotten, Ungathered (till now).
Laugh and the world laughs with you, Weep and you weep alone For the sad old earth must borrow its mirth, But has trouble enough of its own
• Ella Wheeler Wilcox