Full-ripened on the bough,
Pends the bright apple now,
And the lees fall from out the unclouded wine.
These memories that return
Pour from their mellowing urn
A dreamful and delicious anodyne.
O love! thy face, thy hands,
Long lost in sadder lands,
Somewhere amid this golden dale remain:
All that was flown and dear
Lies somehow warm and near—
Nothing is gone but loneliness and pain.
All day I follow still,
On western wold or hill,
The dream redreamed, the enchantment wrought once more:
Tomorrow brings at last
All blisses of the past
For him that drinks of autumn's mandragore.
No bitter winds awake
In reedy tarn or brake;
The citron sunset leaves an orange moon.
Before my senses float
Thy breasts, thy lips, thy throat
Like fruit of Hesperus in a poppy-swoon.