I

There is a glory in the apple-boughs Of glimmering moonlight,--like a torch of myrrh, Burning upon an altar of sweet vows, Dropped from the hand of some pale worshiper:-- And there is life among the apple-blooms Of mystic winds,--as if a god addressed The flamen from the sanctuary glooms, Revealing secrets which no man has guessed, Saying: “Behold! a darkness which illumes: A waking which is rest.”