  Apple-tree, apple-tree, what is it worth: Beauty and passion and red-lipped mirth, Fashioned of fire and the blossoming earth,— Gone in a transient spring? Spending and spilling your wealth through the grass, Coiner of coins that must rust and pass,— Knowing the end is—alas, and alas! What may a poet sing? "Sing of the dust that is blossomy boughs, Dust that is more than your thought allows; Sing you for ever impossible vows Unto the springs to be. "Dust in the dust is for fire and birth, Beauty and passion and red-lipped mirth, Fashioned of dust for the blossoming earth,— Even of you and me." |
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