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.