  FAR away hangs an apple that ripens on high The latest-born child of old sun-blind July, Till the summer’s warm kiss as he wooes overhead Turns its sour heart to sweetness, its wan cheek to red. But it is not for you, and it is not for me, Nay, it is not for any who here may be; For its dawning red sweetness, That rounds to completeness Grows moist for the lips that we never may see. There’s a white rose leaf-cloistered in heavy noon-hush, And no eyes but the stars tempt its pale face to blush, In that wilderness garden where, shut from day’s beam, Fall its fragrant white leaves, light as steps of a dream. Nay, it is not for any who here may be; For it sleeps and then wakes In dew-scented snow-flakes, As a star for the dusk hair we never may see. In a green golden valley there grows an elf-girl, And her lip is red-ripe; and her soul, one rich pearl, Yields once to one diver a treasure unpriced As the wine of the Gods or the wine-blood of Christ. But she is not for you, and she is not for me, Nay she is not for any who here may be; For her breast like a moon Through the rosed air of June Grows round for his hand whom we never may see. |
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