By Algernon Charles Swinburne
There were four apples on the bough,
Half gold half red, that one might know
The blood was ripe inside the core;
The colour of the leaves was more
Like stems of yellow corn that grow
Through all the gold June meadow’s floor.
The warm smell of the fruit was good
To feed on, and the split green wood,
With all its bearded lips and stains
Of mosses in the cloven veins,
Most pleasant, if one lay or stood
In sunshine or in happy rains.
There were four apples on the tree,
Red stained through gold, that all might see
The sun went warm from core to rind;
The green leaves made the summer blind
In that soft place they kept for me
With golden apples shut behind.
The leaves caught gold across the sun,
And where the bluest air begun,
Thirsted for song to help the heat;
As I to feel my lady’s feet
Draw close before the day were done;
Both lips grew dry with dreams of it.
In the mute August afternoon
They trembled to some undertune
Of music in the silver air;
Great pleasure was it to be there
Till green turned duskier and the moon
Coloured the corn-sheaves like gold hair.
That August time it was delight
To watch the red moons wane to white
’Twixt grey seamed stems of apple-trees;
A sense of heavy harmonies
Grew on the growth of patient night,
More sweet than shapen music is.
But some three hours before the moon
The air, still eager from the noon,
Flagged after heat, not wholly dead;
Against the stem I leant my head;
The colour soothed me like a tune,
Green leaves all round the gold and red.
I lay there till the warm smell grew
More sharp, when flecks of yellow dew
Between the round ripe leaves had blurred
The rind with stain and wet; I heard
A wind that blew and breathed and blew,
Too weak to alter its one word.
The wet leaves next the gentle fruit
Felt smoother, and the brown tree-root
Felt the mould warmer: I too felt
(As water feels the slow gold melt
Right through it when the day burns mute)
The peace of time wherein love dwelt.
There were four apples on the tree,
Gold stained on red that all might see
The sweet blood filled them to the core:
The colour of her hair is more
Like stems of fair faint gold, that be
Mown from the harvest’s middle floor.
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Okay so I'm late on the poem. Microsoft uploaded a massive update for people still trying to use XP that I swear was designed to make everyone still trying to use XP have to buy a new computer, because for the past day and a half, my laptop has been useless -- crashing constantly, locking up when I try to do not-very-high-resource things like edit a text file in Notepad or send an email. So since I have switched from my desktop to my laptop in the evening so I could watch the Ravens game, I haven't been able to get a thing done. Apologies if I owe you email.
My day was uneventful anyway, apart from a whole bunch of work, with a couple of breaks for walks because it was cool and not too humid till late in the day -- we still have bunnies. 9/11 is always a hard day for several people I know, so I had that background unhappiness which did not help my mood any when the computer started acting up. The Ravens, at least, won (yes I know all the reasons to be ashamed, but they were playing Pittsburgh and its rapist quarterback so no one has a lot of room to talk). From the National Aquarium's Australia exhibit months ago:
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