"Comfort Me With Apples, For I Am Sick Of Love"

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Title:     "Comfort Me With Apples, For I Am Sick Of Love"
Author: John Presland [More Titles by Presland]

Red lilies under the sun,
Red apples hanging above,
And red is the wine that is spilled
On your bare white feet, O Love.

The poppies sullenly glow
In the smouldering red from the West,
And black are the dregs of the wine,
O Love, on your bare, white breast.

Aie! aie! when the wild swan flies
Lonely and dark is the place
That the white wings lightened, and death
Will cover your glowing face.

O thief that is night, O thieves!
Cold years that devour us all;
The lilies blossom and wilt,
The apples ripen and fall,

The apples, the apples of Love!
--Lo, where we have spilled the wine,
This quenchless earth is agape,
O Love, for your body and mine.

[The end]
John Presland's poem: "Comfort Me With Apples, For I Am Sick Of Love"

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