August

There were four apples on the bough,

Half gold half red, that one might know

The blood was ripe inside the core;

The colour of the leaves was more

Like stems of yellow corn that grow

Through all the gold June meadow's floor.

The warm smell of the fruit was good

To feed on, and the split green wood,

With all its bearded lips and stains

Of mosses in the cloven veins,

Most pleasant, if one lay or stood

In sunshine or in happy rains.

There were four apples on the tree,

Red stained through gold, that all might see

The sun went warm from core to rind;

The green leaves made the summer blind

In that soft place they kept for me

With golden apples shut behind.