Cried, and the child's laugh, sharply shortening As fire doth under rain, fell off; the flame Writhed once all through and died, and in thick dark Tears fell from mine on the child's weeping eyes, Eyes dispossessed of strong inheritance And mortal fallen anew. Who not the less From bud of beard to pale-grey flower of hair Shall wax vinewise to a lordly vine, whose grapes Bleed the red heavy blood of swoln soft wine, Subtle with sharp leaves' intricacy, until Full of white years and blossom of hoary days I take him perfected; for whose one sake I am thus gracious to the least who stands Filleted with white wool and girt upon As he whose prayer endures upon the lip And falls not waste: wherefore let sacrifice Burn and run red in all the wider ways; Seeing I have sworn by the pale temples' band And poppied hair of gold Persephone Sad-tressed and pleached low down about her brows, And by the sorrow in her lips, and death Her dumb and mournful-mouthèd minister, My word for you is eased of its harsh weight And doubled with soft promise; and your king Triptolemus, this Celeus dead and swathed Purple and pale for golden burial, Shall be your helper in my services, Dividing earth and reaping fruits thereof In fields where wait, well-girt, well-wreathen, all The heavy-handed seasons all year through; Saving the choice of warm spear-headed grain, And stooping sharp to the slant-sided share All beasts that furrow the remeasured land With their bowed necks of burden equable. AUGUST There were four apples on the bough, Half gold half red, that one might know The blood was ripe inside the core; The colour of the leaves was more Like stems of yellow corn that grow Through all the gold June meadow's floor. The warm smell of the fruit was good To feed on, and the split green wood, With all its bearded lips and stains Of mosses in the cloven veins, Most pleasant, if one lay or stood In sunshine or in happy rains. There were four apples on the tree, Red stained through gold, that all might see The sun went warm from core to rind; The green leaves made the summer blind In that soft place they kept for me With golden apples shut behind. The leaves caught gold across the sun, And where the bluest air begun Thirsted for song to help the heat; As I to feel my lady's feet Draw close before the day were done; Both lips grew dry with dreams of it. In the mute August afternoon They trembled to some undertune Of music in the silver air; Great pleasure was it to be there Till green turned duskier and the moon Coloured the corn-sheaves like gold hair. That August time it was delight To watch the red moons wane to white 'Twixt grey seamed stems of apple-trees; A sense of heavy harmonies Grew on the growth of patient night, More sweet than shapen music is.