Green Apples

The garden 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-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 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.

Oranges