| THE great gold apples of light | |
| Hang from the street's long bough | |
| Dripping their light | |
| On the faces that drift below, | |
| On the faces that drift and blow | 5 |
| Down the night-time, out of sight | |
| In the wind's sad sough. | |
| |
| The ripeness of these apples of night | |
| Distilling over me | |
| Makes sickening the white | 10 |
| Ghost-flux of faces that hie | |
| Them endlessly, endlessly by | |
| Without meaning or reason why | |
| They ever should be. | |