“COMFORT ME WITH APPLES, FOR I AM SICK OF LOVE”

Red lilies under the sun,

Red apples hanging above,

And red is the wine that is spilled

On your bare white feet, O Love.

The poppies sullenly glow

In the smouldering red from the West,

And black are the dregs of the wine,

O Love, on your bare, white breast.

Aie! aie! when the wild swan flies

Lonely and dark is the place

That the white wings lightened, and death

Will cover your glowing face.

O thief that is night, O thieves!

Cold years that devour us all;

The lilies blossom and wilt,

The apples ripen and fall,

The apples, the apples of Love!

— Lo, where we have spilled the wine,

This quenchless earth is agape,

O Love, for your body and mine.