The Melon

My Lord, 'tis true, the eye may play thee false,

As painted beauty hides a soul that galls.

But mark these signs, deep writ by Nature's hand,

And sweetest nectar shall your taste command.

First, cast thine gaze upon the rind's true hue,

A deep, dull green, not gleaming, fresh with dew.

For gloss doth speak of youth, a fruit unmade,

Whose inner sweetness hath not yet been laid.

Like callow youth, with promises untold,

A melon unripe, proves but tasteless cold.

But matte and aged, like ancient, sun-kissed stone,

Proclaims a ripeness, fully, truly grown.

"The darker yellow the color, the longer the melon has been in the field."

This is a sign, my Lord, of sun's embrace,

That warmth and nurture have its sweetness traced.