the great gold apples of night

hang from the street's long bough

dripping their light

on the faces that drift below,

on the faces that drift and blow

down the night-time, out of sight

in the wind's sad sough.

the ripeness of these apples of night

distilling over me

makes sickening the white

ghost-flux of faces that hie

them endlessly, endlessly by

without meaning or reason why

they ever should be.