The Golden Moment

Along the branches of the laden tree The ripe fruit smiling hang. The afternoon Is emptied of all things done and things to be. Low in the sky the inconspicuous moon Stares enviously upon the mellow earth, That mocks her barren girth.

Ripe blackberries and long green trailing grass Are motionless beneath the heavy light : The happy birds and creeping things that pass Go fitfully and stir as if in fright, That they have broken on some mystery In bramble or in tree.

This is no hour for beings that are maiden ; The spring is virgin, lightly afraid and cold, But now the whole round earth is ripe and laden And stirs beneath her coverlet of gold And in her agony a moment calls . . . A heavy apple falls.