I have become
January apples, soft, though sweet.
Flesh withered, slumped and baked,
My bloom is gone.
No summer pippin, I,
No garland in bright May.
I have no show in me that's left to make,
No sour-sweetness beckoning.
Perhaps there is no more in me
Of gladness for the eye, or heart, or mind.
Plain nourishment is all I have--
But I will keep you warm, my love,
With memories of spring.
January apples, soft, though sweet.
Flesh withered, slumped and baked,
My bloom is gone.
No summer pippin, I,
No garland in bright May.
I have no show in me that's left to make,
No sour-sweetness beckoning.
Perhaps there is no more in me
Of gladness for the eye, or heart, or mind.
Plain nourishment is all I have--
But I will keep you warm, my love,
With memories of spring.
Comments
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Francis sirfrATearthlinkETC