THE FRUIT OF DAY
37
To one shall come the Apple of Desire Red-stained upon the ambers of its globe,Keeping within its core a smouldering fire To scorch the snout, that nozzles Circe's robe:A fatal circle is its pared rind,Where the slow seeds of lust their fruits shall find:
To one may fall an orange of the South Glistening mosaics packed within its sphere,Rich with the scarlets of a passionate mouth Or quivering rainbows, fashioned on a tear. . . .Because he cannot hope to build againThe castle towers that seemed so real—in Spain.
A purple plum Night flings the sailor-man; It cast white petals once in TokioEmblem of purity in Old Japan, But wanderers cannot reap the seed they sow. . . Too ripe for him to-day the earth-fruits come,Thirsting upon the flavour of a plum.
The scientist, as sere as dust by day, One might suspect of dessicated fruits,But he is dreaming back an English May, A stretch of dappled grass, and primrose roots,Night brings no husks to one who grasps at truthHis threaded cherries have the taste of youth!
Night is the fruit of day. So empty are The hands of some, Night brings them only sleep,Untrimmed the lamp—that might have been a star, Unborn the fruits, and buried, dry and deep,The shoot of promise. So they wake aloneTo barren acres where no seed was sown,
