Golden apple, is there a reason why you are?
After the kiss, striking the air with luster?
Or an aspara’s rounded breast, darkened with the rapture
And held in the hand of a god whose sight is gone?

So much, yet just begun! This autumn seems unending.
Enough! But more. Even the skin is meshed
In eager sweetness. This glad befriending
Works through the loss undiminished.

And is that all? So think the sleepy ones.
But when some lust-encumbered eye
Sees through bowl and orchard, tears across the veils,

And in a strange spell of light, becomes
In you a forest, a spacious sky—
We too then wish we were something else.