BITTEN APPLES

Their couch the pliant strength of lusty grass,
Cool shade of leaves their canopy, “Alas,”
Sing many maidens, crouched upon their knees
Or lain full-length among the flowers for ease,
                        “Alas, how slow, how slow,
                        Time’s hobby-horse does go.”

Some hold their hands above their heads, to touch
And handle—Eve-forgetting—fruit, so much
Their cheeks’ colour yet cool unlike their cheeks.
Their taste-stung tongues still tell, how “Every week’s
                        A week of weeks; so slow
                        Time’s hobby-horse can go.”

To idle hearts the day is weariness,
And to lax limbs the land heart’s heaviness;
For all their hearts are healed: long time ago
Hunter Love satisfied hung up his bow.
                        Their song dies down as slow
                        As Time’s play-horse can go.

                                                      15