August

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 meadows 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 ladys 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 harvests middle floor.