The Apple

A Poem

“A pleasure is only full grown when it is remembered.” ~ C.S. Lewis

The moonbeams mingle with the stars

And melt into a saffron sun.

They lie alone on ghost-gray bars

While long years languid run

For that triumphant moment when,

With her awful shadow-light,

She makes the noon-lit meadows dim!—

Her ring star glisters bright.

See the mountains’ turret-ring

Contented in its ancient place?

The rosebuds sleep until the spring

To flare with blood-green faerie grace.

So each desire, love, or thought

Must wait until its proper hour—

Then, in some higher calling caught,

Burst into flower.