Anthology of magazine verse for 1920 and year book of american poetry / edited by William Stanley Braithwaite [electronic text]

THE APPLES

— The world is wasted with fire and sword But the apples of gold hang over the sea.—

When the wounded seaman heard the ocean daughters With their dreamy call Lull the stormy demon of the waters, He remembered all.

He remembered knowing of an island charted, "Past a flying fire,"Where a fruit was growing, winey-hearted, Called "the mind's desire."

Near him broke the stealing rollers into jewels Round a tree, and there Sorrow's end and healing, peace, renewalsRipened in the air.

So he knew he'd found it and he watched the glory Burning on the tree With the dancers round it — like the story — In the swinging sea.

Lovely round the honey-colored fruit, the motion Made a leafy stir. Songs were in that sunny tree of ocean Where the apples were.

First the ocean sung them, then the daughters after, Dancing to the word. Beauty danced among them with low laughter And the harp was heard.

In that sea's immeasurable music sounded Songs of peace, and still From the bough the treasure hung down rounded To the seaman's will.

Redder than the jewel-seeded beach and sharper Were the wounds he bore, Hearing, past the cruel dark, a harper Lulling on the shore.

Long he watched the wonders, ringed with lovely perils, Watched the apples gleam In the sleepy thunders on the beryls, Then he breathed his dream:

"Bloody lands and flaming seas and cloudy slaughter,Hateful fogs unfurled, Steely horror, shaming sky and water, These have wreathed the world.

"Give me fruit for freighting, till my anchor grapples Home beyond the vast. Earth shall end her hating through the apples And be healed at last."'

Then the sea-girls, lifting up their lovely voices With the secret word, Sang it through the drifting ocean noises And the sailor heard;

Ocean-old the answers reached his failing sinew, Touched, unveiled his eyes; Beach and bough and dancers are within you, There the island lies.

'Though the heavens harden, though the thunders hover, Though our song be mute, Burning in our garden for the lover Still unfolds the fruit."

Outward from that shore the happy sailor, turning,Passed the fleets of sleep,Passed his pain and bore the secret, burning, Homeward to the deep.

The Nation