The great gold apples of nightHang from the street's long bough Dripping their lightOn the faces that drift below,On the faces that drift and blowDown the night-time, out of sight In the wind's sad sough.
The ripeness of these apples of nightDistilling over me Makes sickening the whiteGhost-flux of faces that hieThem endlessly, endlessly byWithout meaning or reason why They ever should be.
