(3)GREEN APPLES
THEgarden lies spattered with wet green moonlightSpilled from the night’s dark goblet;And the wraith in the garden huddles mournfullySilently watching,Upon the broad marble seat,Where white lilies and roses bloom.Wine of pale silver-green drenches the garden.The little gray wraith huddles mournfully,Silently watching........On that broad marble seat to-daySat a beautiful lady ...Through the hot golden hours of the long afternoon ...Oh a beautiful lady!With a warm wicked beauty of white, and of rose,And of ebony.Over her white breasts a long green scarf falling ...Wet, bright, apple-green.Out in the orchard, laughingWith clear, evil laughter ...Ice laughter ...She had gathered some little green applesAnd bit them with strong white teeth.“I am Eve! I am Eve in the garden ...Come! Adam!”And he followed ... poor, passionate lover ...To the seat by the heavy white lilies and roses.(Oh far far away lie the wise castle windowsBehind the rose gardens and lime trees!)But after the lovers ... after them, swiftly, swiftly,Like a fleeting gray shadow,Speeds the little gray wraith ...With feeble weak fingers of dampnessPulling with tremulous touch at his heart-strings ...Pricking like impotent tiny thorns;Nipping, and pinching, and prickingThe shrivelled, black conscience of the rosy and beautiful lady.See! from the shrivelled black conscienceOne drop of bright, red blood,As from prick of a rose thorn ...And his heart-strings are drawn tight and knottedWith tiny, weak, slipping knotsTied by feeble, damp fingers ...Slipping ... slipping ... oh slipping!But what does that matter?For Time has come to the help of the gray wraith ...Grave, gray Father Time with a handful of moments—Dust? Ashes?...He has set the rose-shrouded sundial in shadow........Now the broad marble seat is emptyExcept where gray wraith has sunk down in the moonlightVictorious.Ah! ... the lady had dropped her bright, apple-green scarf,And it stirs like a sinuous, long snake.Is it only that one pointed corner is liftedBy the stealthy, stealing, night wind?Slowly, slowly ... so feebly ...The snake lifts itself with the wind’s help,RevealingA little green apple,With some black dents where strong white teethHave bitten it.And the small, gray wraith noiselessly moans and shudders.But what matter?For the long night passes.Only the green scarf lies harmlessly, softly,On the empty marble seat where the little gray wraith sitsAnd watches,Victorious ...Though the green wine of moonlight is drenchingThe perilous garden.
THEgarden lies spattered with wet green moonlightSpilled from the night’s dark goblet;And the wraith in the garden huddles mournfullySilently watching,Upon the broad marble seat,Where white lilies and roses bloom.Wine of pale silver-green drenches the garden.The little gray wraith huddles mournfully,Silently watching........On that broad marble seat to-daySat a beautiful lady ...Through the hot golden hours of the long afternoon ...Oh a beautiful lady!With a warm wicked beauty of white, and of rose,And of ebony.Over her white breasts a long green scarf falling ...Wet, bright, apple-green.Out in the orchard, laughingWith clear, evil laughter ...Ice laughter ...She had gathered some little green applesAnd bit them with strong white teeth.“I am Eve! I am Eve in the garden ...Come! Adam!”And he followed ... poor, passionate lover ...To the seat by the heavy white lilies and roses.(Oh far far away lie the wise castle windowsBehind the rose gardens and lime trees!)But after the lovers ... after them, swiftly, swiftly,Like a fleeting gray shadow,Speeds the little gray wraith ...With feeble weak fingers of dampnessPulling with tremulous touch at his heart-strings ...Pricking like impotent tiny thorns;Nipping, and pinching, and prickingThe shrivelled, black conscience of the rosy and beautiful lady.See! from the shrivelled black conscienceOne drop of bright, red blood,As from prick of a rose thorn ...And his heart-strings are drawn tight and knottedWith tiny, weak, slipping knotsTied by feeble, damp fingers ...Slipping ... slipping ... oh slipping!But what does that matter?For Time has come to the help of the gray wraith ...Grave, gray Father Time with a handful of moments—Dust? Ashes?...He has set the rose-shrouded sundial in shadow........Now the broad marble seat is emptyExcept where gray wraith has sunk down in the moonlightVictorious.Ah! ... the lady had dropped her bright, apple-green scarf,And it stirs like a sinuous, long snake.Is it only that one pointed corner is liftedBy the stealthy, stealing, night wind?Slowly, slowly ... so feebly ...The snake lifts itself with the wind’s help,RevealingA little green apple,With some black dents where strong white teethHave bitten it.And the small, gray wraith noiselessly moans and shudders.But what matter?For the long night passes.Only the green scarf lies harmlessly, softly,On the empty marble seat where the little gray wraith sitsAnd watches,Victorious ...Though the green wine of moonlight is drenchingThe perilous garden.
THEgarden lies spattered with wet green moonlightSpilled from the night’s dark goblet;And the wraith in the garden huddles mournfullySilently watching,Upon the broad marble seat,Where white lilies and roses bloom.Wine of pale silver-green drenches the garden.The little gray wraith huddles mournfully,Silently watching.
THEgarden lies spattered with wet green moonlight
Spilled from the night’s dark goblet;
And the wraith in the garden huddles mournfully
Silently watching,
Upon the broad marble seat,
Where white lilies and roses bloom.
Wine of pale silver-green drenches the garden.
The little gray wraith huddles mournfully,
Silently watching.
.......
.......
.......
On that broad marble seat to-daySat a beautiful lady ...Through the hot golden hours of the long afternoon ...Oh a beautiful lady!With a warm wicked beauty of white, and of rose,And of ebony.Over her white breasts a long green scarf falling ...Wet, bright, apple-green.Out in the orchard, laughingWith clear, evil laughter ...Ice laughter ...She had gathered some little green applesAnd bit them with strong white teeth.“I am Eve! I am Eve in the garden ...Come! Adam!”And he followed ... poor, passionate lover ...To the seat by the heavy white lilies and roses.(Oh far far away lie the wise castle windowsBehind the rose gardens and lime trees!)But after the lovers ... after them, swiftly, swiftly,Like a fleeting gray shadow,Speeds the little gray wraith ...With feeble weak fingers of dampnessPulling with tremulous touch at his heart-strings ...Pricking like impotent tiny thorns;Nipping, and pinching, and prickingThe shrivelled, black conscience of the rosy and beautiful lady.See! from the shrivelled black conscienceOne drop of bright, red blood,As from prick of a rose thorn ...And his heart-strings are drawn tight and knottedWith tiny, weak, slipping knotsTied by feeble, damp fingers ...Slipping ... slipping ... oh slipping!But what does that matter?For Time has come to the help of the gray wraith ...Grave, gray Father Time with a handful of moments—Dust? Ashes?...He has set the rose-shrouded sundial in shadow.
On that broad marble seat to-day
Sat a beautiful lady ...
Through the hot golden hours of the long afternoon ...
Oh a beautiful lady!
With a warm wicked beauty of white, and of rose,
And of ebony.
Over her white breasts a long green scarf falling ...
Wet, bright, apple-green.
Out in the orchard, laughing
With clear, evil laughter ...
Ice laughter ...
She had gathered some little green apples
And bit them with strong white teeth.
“I am Eve! I am Eve in the garden ...
Come! Adam!”
And he followed ... poor, passionate lover ...
To the seat by the heavy white lilies and roses.
(Oh far far away lie the wise castle windows
Behind the rose gardens and lime trees!)
But after the lovers ... after them, swiftly, swiftly,
Like a fleeting gray shadow,
Speeds the little gray wraith ...
With feeble weak fingers of dampness
Pulling with tremulous touch at his heart-strings ...
Pricking like impotent tiny thorns;
Nipping, and pinching, and pricking
The shrivelled, black conscience of the rosy and beautiful lady.
See! from the shrivelled black conscience
One drop of bright, red blood,
As from prick of a rose thorn ...
And his heart-strings are drawn tight and knotted
With tiny, weak, slipping knots
Tied by feeble, damp fingers ...
Slipping ... slipping ... oh slipping!
But what does that matter?
For Time has come to the help of the gray wraith ...
Grave, gray Father Time with a handful of moments—
Dust? Ashes?...
He has set the rose-shrouded sundial in shadow.
.......
.......
.......
Now the broad marble seat is emptyExcept where gray wraith has sunk down in the moonlightVictorious.Ah! ... the lady had dropped her bright, apple-green scarf,And it stirs like a sinuous, long snake.Is it only that one pointed corner is liftedBy the stealthy, stealing, night wind?Slowly, slowly ... so feebly ...The snake lifts itself with the wind’s help,RevealingA little green apple,With some black dents where strong white teethHave bitten it.And the small, gray wraith noiselessly moans and shudders.But what matter?For the long night passes.Only the green scarf lies harmlessly, softly,On the empty marble seat where the little gray wraith sitsAnd watches,Victorious ...Though the green wine of moonlight is drenchingThe perilous garden.
Now the broad marble seat is empty
Except where gray wraith has sunk down in the moonlight
Victorious.
Ah! ... the lady had dropped her bright, apple-green scarf,
And it stirs like a sinuous, long snake.
Is it only that one pointed corner is lifted
By the stealthy, stealing, night wind?
Slowly, slowly ... so feebly ...
The snake lifts itself with the wind’s help,
Revealing
A little green apple,
With some black dents where strong white teeth
Have bitten it.
And the small, gray wraith noiselessly moans and shudders.
But what matter?
For the long night passes.
Only the green scarf lies harmlessly, softly,
On the empty marble seat where the little gray wraith sits
And watches,
Victorious ...
Though the green wine of moonlight is drenching
The perilous garden.