Hart Crane
"Sunday Morning Apples"
To William Sommer
The leaves will fall again sometime and fill The fleece of nature with those purposes That are your rich and faithful strength of line. But now there are challenges to spring In that ripe nude with head reared Into a realm of swords, her purple shadow Bursting on the winter of the world From whiteness that cries defiance to the snow. A boy runs with a dog before the sun, straddling Spontaneities that form their independent orbits, Their own perennials of light In the valley where you live (called Brandywine). I have seen the apples there that toss you secrets,- Beloved apples of seasonable madness That feed your inquiries with aerial wine. Put them beside a pitcher with a knife, And poise them full and ready for explosion- The apples, Bill, the apples!
